He loved the smell of cigarettes.
It reminds me of my childhood, he'd say,
as he lit one to burn in the corner of the room,
the strong, musky scent causing my eyes to water,
and I thought about the night he said he hated seeing me cry.
Every once in a while he would begin smoking them again,
because he was stressed,
because he was sad,
because they calmed him,
and I thought about the night he said that I was all he needed.
And I would wait patiently until he was done,
time being robbed from us,
and I remembered the night he said
that if he had all the time in the world,
he'd spend every second in my arms.
But if he had loved me the way he loved the smell of cigarettes,
maybe he would have never left.
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