See I’m not a smoker and can assure you that nicotine has never found its way into my wind pipe through my own hands.
But then why lately my memories have me deceived?
Why can I, inexplicably, feel the butt of the cigarette within my lips, when I race back to them memories?
I can certainly remember it loosely dwindling between my index and middle finger when I was sitting with her in the parking, on the platform.
I can certainly remember it being the companion in long walks to college and home and in short walks to and forth the metro stations.
I can certainly remember it loving me while I was loveless.
It was certainly there with me in the balcony and various other places. I can remember clearly.
And certainly I can remember all the motions that come along with it. The motions of the hand to the lips, the drawing in of breath and the creative smoke that emanated as it was released, while eyes closed and opened.
I do not know how this came to be. This-this corruption of memory.
But in writing this I realize that I haven’t smoked, yet I have been an addict.