• _nomad 10w

    She once said she was worried
    i smoke too many cigarettes and
    what probably she meant was
    i am bad with moderation.

    I have been thinking about fist,
    how we learn to open them,
    how hair grows back and clogs
    the shower drain.
    I am thinking about bodies.

    My mother taught me not to
    fall in love but to walk in to it,
    take my time with cheek kisses
    and uncomfortable silences.

    but collapsing never felt as
    good as it did on her couch
    with television on softly in
    the background.

    I want to call her and scream
    but I know even the scariest
    honesty won't bring her back.
    I think about coffee and
    sad songs and soar throats.

    I think that in five years
    i will still read her horoscope
    out of habit,
    Still cringe at the names of
    the boys she's loved in the past.

    She once said that she was worried
    because I smoke too often.
    It's been a year since I told her
    I need her and she suggested
    to buy a pack of cigarettes.

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    Almost like she knew
    She was the harder habit to quit.
    She was right.