There’s an Open Pack of Cigarettes

There’s an open pack of cigarettes in the glove box.
I haven’t smoked them.
I found them,
left behind,
in the office.
So I took them,
my fingers itching to steal,
lungs aching to burn,
brain wanting a release.
I have never smoked.
A lie.
I smoked once,
half of one,
passing the still-lit cigarette to a friend,
singing loudly into the night
as she double-fisted the burning sticks
out the car window
doing sixty.
But I want to.
Which is why,
weeks later,
there’s an open pack of cigarettes in the glove box.

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