for the things in my drafts

i hope she is wrong. maybe i'm wrong too.

but when my gag reflex throbs and saliva builds in my mouth, I'll spit it out and stop myself. always too close to it, always far enough.

but when i reject every opportunity to be yours, in every way, I'll briefly let my mind wonder. always too close, always far enough.

in a simpler time, I'd throw up and call you, see you the next day and run in your arms. those days have been gone for nearly two years, and I'll keep the memory from slipping into my mind like saliva on a cold sink.

i will never come back.

when the taste of iron will first hit my tongue, i will realize it tastes faintly like you. I have been clean for four months, twenty two days and sixteen hours. of that time, I last met you one month, seventeen days and twenty one hours.

you are the biggest indulge i had in the space in between. and you will burn into the ashes of my cigarettes, flushed away with prolonged bile and shaky hands.

just like I'll wish, for a split second, your arms were keeping me warm - even when every instinct bites and yells at me.

i don't love you. i don't love smoking either.

but when i woke up to the comfort of my warm blankets and dizzy head, checking my stupid locked chats -

call me, I'd still answer, even with nicotine stains on my right hand