The fumble and the spark. That’s what I’ll miss. That little ritual. Matches: both cheap and pretentious, a difficult combination to come by. The stick breathes gently on its own, streaming into the air. Its mouth is a little fire.

Occupation for my hands and lips, to keep me out of trouble. A calming thing. Once, a friend told me the breaths you take while smoking are similar to the breathing techniques they teach you for managing panic attacks. I can believe that. The number of times I’ve sat holding tears in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Steady, steady. The light shaking in the dark.

I knew a man who could roll a cigarette while riding a bicycle. I wonder if learning to roll would be a good idea. Cheaper, an even better ritual. Lay out the paper, the baccie, the tips. Thumbs and index fingers.

Everyone tells me not to give up just yet. This thing is stressful enough without adding to my own trouble. They don’t know I only started last year. Who knew at twenty-six I would still be susceptible to peer pressure? Even now, when anyone lights up I follow suit. It’s become automatic. When I’m around people I’m up to ten a day.

I blow out my match as it burns my fingertip. Take a deep breath and try not to think about any of it.

Flick ash, blow smoke, watch the hazy moon.