For a few weeks, I thought they were gone forever, but they were tucked away in my Aunt's basement, behind sacks of romance novels. They were great to read.
From 22 January, 1995. Sunday.
I smoked my last cigarette for the weekend. I can still taste the tar and nicotine on the back of my throat and on my teeth. It tastes like the kisses of K.--or so long ago the kisses of T. I became addicted to smoking this summer when I sat in truck stops and Shari's late at night with TM and K and breathed in the smell of the pipe, or sat on the front porch of the house sittin' house and smelled the smoke from the Lucky Strikes. I guess now I 'm the only one around to smoke, so I do and remember the kisses.