The Cigarette Of Memory Lane

Let me know what you think of this short dramatic scene!?

A cigarette burns betwixt my fingers, but I have no ashtray to bunt the burnt ash away.  The window seal collects it and does the dirty work, giving the coffee table a night off. I inhale 7000 chemicals, but not a single one can take away the pain in my head. It only takes it to another part of me I cannot find. Maybe it takes it to my fingertips. Maybe the cigarette takes it all,  burns it all away, but I refuse to let it go. Why can’t I let it go? It’s so easy, you just forget, right?

It’s not that easy,  because she’s not that easy to forget. She can’t be understood,  she can’t be bought, well not her love anyway, she can’t be easily persuaded because she’s all woman.

She has wants and needs,  and I have a pile of ashes and burnt fingertips. The smoke in my lungs burn hot, I hold it in, but I can’t let it out for the first time. I forgotten her or misplaced her. I left her in the smoke I exhale as she leaves me.

Goodbye and farewell, I guess.

It was only two minutes after I stacked the sixth cigarette on the pyramid of cigarettes, that I realized I haven’t forgotten her completely. I’m making progress, but I forget if the cigarettes help me forget or remember. I lite another one in case it helps me forget. I’ll put it out if she shows up again. That is, of course, if I can. She’s not my only addiction, you probably realize, but nicotine is one hell of a drug.

I open the box of cigarettes to find one lonely cigarette still remaining. I smoke it to help me forget, and I placed the lighter next to it in the box and save it for tomorrow’s new day. Another day of pain in my head. Another day without her. And only a single cigarette to keep the memory of her suppressed. It’s not enough, but it’s never enough. I was never enough. I was only there to fill her days,  and help her find another and forget the last. I am but a tool.

If sunshine were hell,  I’d be laying in hell in my own bed. I don’t think I can snooze the sun.  It would be selfish for the other people ready to get up. I look to the nightstand to find my cigarettes because she’s on my mind again, but the cigarettes are still a mystery. I still think of her. I lite it and lay in bed. The nightstand goes to work for the ashes. I take a drag and hold it long. She’s off my mind, so the cigarettes do you help me forget her, but soon enough she’ll be back to torture me with our memories.

I won’t last much longer this way.

I send to communicate with her, but she doesn’t answer because she doesn’t need me yet, but she’ll call back soon enough. When she need something from me. When it’s convenient.

What do I do when the fire builds inside me?

I scream at the wall. I curse her. I promise myself that the moment she calls me I send it to voicemail. Or better yet, I’ll answer it and tell her off. I will tell her how much I hate her, and how much I want to destroy her and leave her, but the moment she calls I answer with the most sweetest voice, and she’s got me by a string. I dangle there, even though, I’m in pain… because I like the way it hurts.

I am but a tool.

Micah Herman

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