It is raining here
And my lungs are dying for one cigarette
Just one
And the good hurt of missing you
Has gone bone deep.
It verges on the edge of being painful
But nobody ever said I wasn't a masochist.
With the smoke of a cigarette
Memories of you will rise in the air
But I do not want to exorcise you
So I sit here and write this,
Wanting you, wanting a smoke
And having nothing.
