I have missed you. You have always been there. Right there in my pocket, between my lips, begging for my fire. And I loved you. I love you, still. You, with your sleek dark smoke drawing mystery into bar scenes, drawing deep into my being, drawing us closer, America. Damn we looked good together. Your sweeping cloak of armor around my soft body. And it's not that I truly believe that you're such an enemy as they all say. You never hurt me. It was I who invited you in. I offered you room and board. I offered you no choice.
I am not so self-rightous as I thought I would be. Yes, I continue to gay bash you. Because smoking is gay. But I guess I figured I would want more credit from letting you go. But this was not some whirlwind death chant like methamphetamines, no, this was a romance. It has stood the test of time like no other has. Even whiskey can't hold a flame to your evergreen underbelly of succulent lust. Too long, lover. It has been too long.
Maybe I am not quite as proud because I secretly never left you. I still have a half a pack of organic spirits in the kitchen drawer. You know, the drawer with the epoxy, and tape, the scissors, flashlight, rubber bands, cowgirl spurs. Way at the back where I can't seem em real good is that little box of choice. I have to do everything the hard way. I refuse to be stripped of my choice. I refuse to be an addict. Not this time, America. I'm not taking that on.
So, yes, my friend, you may bum a smoke. I'll even go outside with you even though it's -2 degrees out and my nose freezes quickly. I'll do it, buddy. Because America has done it for me. And I love making the right choice. Living with my half a pack of organic american spirits gives me a million times a day to make the right choice for me. And that choice is no thank you.