Just so you know, I don’t smoke, LOL; there is a reason behind the “nicotine-induced.”

This is a short piece I wrote about a week or so ago. I posted on my MySpace blog, and I wanted to share it with you guys, too. If you check it out, leave a comment and let me know what you think!

she was like a cigarette after a good meal: orgasmic and satisfying, but you knew in thirty years, as you lay riddled with cancer, you’d regret the first taste of her on your lips.

you try to remember where you were in the story called your life before she entered in a smoky haze. you can’t because in reality, your life was but a blank page waiting for her to come and write the first line. and she did. she did write that first, gripping line that propelled you into a whirlwind story full of cliffhanging chapters, tears, heartbreak, devastation, and small, slight glimpses of what could only be described as pure joy.

you take tentative steps behind her as you let her narrate the story of how you two came to be. with broad, sweeping strokes, she writes a tale of a friendship, and of a forbidden love that grew between two unlike souls. you breathed her and your story in, deep into your lungs, feeling the tar harden them and shorten your breath. despite the tightening of your chest, you can’t stop reading about your life. you can’t stop reading what will happen next in your adventure-horror-action-fantasy-mystery-love story. will it be the husband? perhaps the kid? or maybe the meddling mother that graces the story as a new character, looking to be villain or do-gooder in the ongoing saga. in any good story on the travails of love, one must ask:

will there be obstacles? surely, there are obstacles. marriage, kids way past time in carriage, denial, morals, family, friends, and when one minor obstacle arises, all the others pile up again.

will there be fights? surely, there are fights. loud fights. almost fist-flinging fights of i love you but i can’t do this, of lets just be friends, of it’s against my morals, of this is driving me crazy, of why can’t we just run away and be together.

will there be make-ups? surely, there are make ups. at midnight, under a bridge in a car. in a hotel room with a ceiling full of stars. on new mattress on floor of newly moved in home. during ‘too old to be having them’ sleepovers that feel like there’s no other place to belong.

for years, you step through the world, following your storyteller by the thin, curly float of smoke that seeps from her cigarette, and you hope, after the pages that have been written, after the too many to count times you looked at your wrist and thought ‘it’ll take just one slit,’ and after the strife, fights, and kiss and make-ups, that finally she’ll write THE END on a page and consider you two the most ill-fated, star-crossed lovers or the epitome of a strong, lasting relationship.

but alas, after a tome bigger than any work that guarantees to tell everything you ever wanted to know about life, she still writes, and you still read, letting her words embed themselves into your memory, letting her light flame your insides until nothing’s left by pulp and ash.