the cigarette

she says i'll be right back,
i need a cigarette, i nod,
she stands there for a moment
to measure my mood, my possible
discontent with her grabbing
a smoke out on the sidewalk
in twenty degree january weather,
but i smile politely, and say go.
i want to say that i'm sorry
that you have to, but
it's not me, it's you that
needs to do what you do, and
if we loved one another, if
we were to share a life at some
point, perhaps i'd touch your hand,
gently hold your arm and say
something like, i wish you
wouldn't. i love you, and wish
for your life to be long and
healthy, but i don't, and so
she goes, quickly to the door,
her hair in the wind, her long
bare legs shivering in the night.
and i see the bright orange glow
of her cigarette burning
at her lips while she inhales,
deep and hard, as if the smoke
was oxygen, and was needed to go on.