Smoking

I have not smoked for eight years

For eight years I have not held in my hand that filthy weed

That turned my hands yellow and poured out of me a stench that the next morning made my toes 

Curl in disgust.

But for eight years every time I get close enough to smell those wispy clouds

I suck down on the smell of second hand smoke, inhaling it as deep as I dare

Looking wistfully at the embers of light glowing tantalisingly close but just beyond

My outstretched hand.

And as the eight years tick by with pregnancy and birth and babies latched to my breast

The urge gets stronger and stronger to reach out and grab that stick 

And to taste it between my lips, to hold it between my fingers

To remember what it felt like to breathe in and out, and out and in

And my soul and body grow more restless with each passing day

And I can justify that nicotine is the lesser of two evils

And to deny I am using it to cross back over

Into a world I felt was passing me by.