Tobacco

I saw him today. I hadn't seen him in a week, he didn't call, he didn't write. He was alone. He was rolling another cigarette. I watched him from the first floor put a large piece of tobacco. Ah, how I miss this tobacco. The first time I tried his cigarettes, the tobacco went deep into my throat and made me choke, but the second pull was as tempting as the second kiss. Ah, how I miss this tobacco. As I watched him, I remembered how good I felt in his arms when he touched me, when he kissed me with his soft warm lips. All the love in me came back, but for some reason I continued to the second floor. I looked out the window again. He was still there. He was alone. I didn't know if he was waiting for someone or someone. I wanted to go and ask him why he was alone, who he was waiting for, what he was doing there, but I don't know why I went on to the third floor. He was already holding the cigarette in his mouth and taking a deep breath of the heavy tobacco. Ah, how much I miss this tobacco, how much I miss holding our hands, saying kind words to each other, and when we leave we whisper the one full of concern and love - "Beware." I was already on the fourth floor. I looked out the window for the last time. He was alone. My whole heart wanted me to run back to the first floor, to hug him, to kiss him, to tell him that I wanted everything to be as before, to tell him with all my sincerity that I loved him, but my mind would not allow it. Then I understood. I didn't love him. I loved the memory of him. I loved the feeling of being next to me, even if it was suffocating me. I loved his kiss. I loved his embrace. I loved his tenderness and concern. But I didn't love him. I loved the feeling of not feeling lonely. I loved the strong voice inside me screaming - "