Sometimes I inhale deeply, deliberately, shakily
and exhale -
with the same amount of effort.

as if to remember when you taught me how to smoke in the carpark behind my house.

If I concentrate hard enough,
I can still hear the echo of your voice,
teaching me how to hold my cigarette.
"Delicately" you said, "casually"
like the way your palm shadowed the back of my hand -
almost touching -
and how your fingers lightly grazed mine.

If I blink fast enough, I can still picture the shadows cast across your face
each time the shitty fluroescent light flickered,
drawing your eyes upward,
dividing your attention.
I'd held my breath each time in those split seconds,
until your eyes were back on my eyes -
my watering eyes,
reddened by the smoke, teary from my spluttering and choking.

I'd burnt myself with your cheap bic lighter,
the blue plastic had melted a bit.
If I run a finger over my thumb, where the burn had been,
I recall the heat, the sting of the burn
and then, the gentle warmth of the flame on that cold night.

I can still taste, in the back of my throat,
the warm smoke and its bitterness.
I can taste the tobacco on my lips and
the satisfaction of my rebellion on the tip of my tongue.

_