the smell of cigarettes
lingers on my fingertips and the palms of my hands
my sweatshirt, jeans, the drawstring bag i held in my lap
the tshirt i wore when the breeze died down
i kept on smoking the nicotine infested cancer sticks
remembering that smell so familiar
in car rides and movie nights
and i still hold half the pack in my bag for later days
just in case i need my new found nervous habit
because i think i might miss you
i havent washed my hands or changed my clothes
and i know i love the familiar smell and taste
i miss you
and im scared to admitt that
im scared of what youll say or do
or the lack there of
or could have been or what could or will still be
are we or are we not

all i know is that i miss you
the only things that connect me
are the smell of the cigarettes
and the cans of cokes in the kitchen

i miss you.