The nicotine needs of her warmth haunt me still.
My notions betray my principles, and I can't put morality on how I feel.
The tars of what can't be undone are always at war with me.
The penance of tragedy fills up my lungs.
This eternal turmoil goes beyond right and wrong.
I'm enticed by her nicotine voice, for it's always a matter of longing, but never a matter of choice.
Sometimes, I go 15 days sober, yet sometimes my addiction to her takes over.
I can't reach out to her, so I reach out to nicotine instead.
I can't seem to get her out of my head, so I smoke out my emotions instead.
The smoke lingers, and so does my yearning for her.
I let it linger for a while, it gives me a reason to smile.
The nicotine needs of her warmth haunt me still.
My notions betray my principles, and I can't put morality on how I feel.
The tars of what can't be undone are always at war with me.
The penance of tragedy fills up my lungs.
This eternal turmoil goes beyond right and wrong.
I'm enticed by her nicotine voice, for it's always a matter of longing, but never a matter of choice.
Sometimes, I go fifteen days sober, yet sometimes my addiction to her takes over.
I can't reach out to her, so I reach out to nicotine instead.
I can't seem to get her out of my head, so I smoke out my emotions by the thread.
The smoke lingers, and so does my yearning for her.
I let it linger for a while, it gives me a reason to smile.
And when it fades, that's my cue to go back to being dead.
I lock it all in and trust me, I won't tell a soul 'cause people write stories about love bombing & hyperbole.
I can't find a way back to you, so I just stare at the door.
I stare at the door with a pack of cigarettes in hand, too apprehensive to open it, too fond of it to let it go.
I can't be an addict I remind myself, only to succumb to my greed and baser needs.
My nicotine needs and unfulfilled dreams find an abode in her memories.
I'm a creature of the night, and I have plenty of time to write about all the ways I can self-destruct than profess the obvious.
Not being obvious leads to secrecy that makes her curious about the amount of hold she has on me.
Obvious or not, my feelings for her are too hot not to leave a burn mark.
My burns and scars are too personal to me & have never brought me shame.
But I do hide them cause I don't want the wound to equate to her name.
We lived through enough nicotine wars already, and maybe now, it's time for peace.
The remains of our romance deserve it, I guess.
I try to stay sober yet long for a sight of her face.
It is what it is, & one can't put a taboo on taste.
The taste of her lips and aftertaste of nicotine seem too familiar, and to choose between the two seems so heart-numbingly peculiar.
Seasons change, yet yearning remains, for her and for nicotine.
I promise my friends that I will quit, but the truth is, I'm more into nicotine than I have ever been.
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