I was a smoker
For a time

Hand on jutted hip
Fingers trembled
Inhaling a darkness
Too pale to match my own

I quit for my husband and the children he promised me
I quit as the spirit of rebellion burned out
... I had nothing left to feed it

Now I walk past ephemeral fingers of death
And I cough and choke
The only memory their lashes whipping chest and throat

I walk away and I can breathe again
The swell of nausea sinks in my belly
Begging me to remember
What I gave up is nothing to what I have

I was leaving class one afternoon when I caught the tail of someone's cigarette smoke exhalation.  Smokers don't annoy me.  It's not an us-them feeling.  It was just the passing of one of my own personal demons.  This was written January 18.