With the shortness of breath, I ask,
will I miss the tobacco shake
caught underneath my fingernails
after fifteen wasted minutes making a pack
that will go up in smoke by the night’s end?
And I cough at my sadness over quitting
a part of my daily routine, a part of my life
for fifteen years too long.
So I sit today with the weight of shame
further burdening my chest
staring at my last three beautiful rolls of addiction.
For tomorrow, I am left with nothing but vapor
and a withdrawal I’ve been procrastinating
for almost as many years as I have been enjoying
blowing smoke circles from curling my tongue.