Starry evening by starry evening; cloudy or clear, cold or warm, raining or not- anyone could find you standing against the back of your childhood home with your foot propped up against it like some cool-type that I knew you weren’t, but you tried and smiled easily as you did. Smoke from your nose and the steaming cigar, we kissed briefly and it was my favorite by far.
Your words dripped like the poisonous nicotine that was in your hand, and by God as my witness- I fell hard.
Some days on the open highway, in the warm Arizonian air when no other cars were around, you’d lean over and kiss my cheek- and it was in moments like those that you became my nicotine.
There were passionate nights in random motels along interstate 69, and there were rough mornings with rum and butterscotch flavored teeth, dents in the beds and bruises on our cheeks.
With the top of your little black convertible down, we’d fly from San Francisco to New York City, all the way down to Louisiana and back around. The open road and my bare cherry red painted toes, we’d ride all day and throughout the night in the sunshine- and then we’d park under the canopy of a long abandoned gas station somewhere on interstate 80 when a storm took us by surprise.
And from all that time, to the long days and endless nights; to every meaningless fight over who would pay the bills this time; to the star gazing and cloudy skies; to the hot sun and cool stars shine; to every stolen glance at each other from over the bar; to every breathless kiss and discarded mistake- you were my nicotine.
On a drizzly Sunday evening, while I’m waiting for dreamless sleep, you were out back with the Preacher's daughter from the church down the street. Sizzling cigar in her hand and lips around your teeth, she had fell for your nicotine flavored mouth… Just like the women before even me.
In the morning I found myself alone along the east coast, a thousand some odd miles from home, with my memories and nicotine in my soul.
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