The first lover I ever had was a cigarette. My smokes were the most faithful of companions. They were always there for me. They never complained, never talked back and made me feel so good in the moment I needed them.

The cigarettes and I would often sneak off together. They were ever willing and ready to go. I planned my days around being with them. They took coffee breaks and lunch with me. We watched TV together and visited with my friends. They rode with me in the car and made an evening out oh so much better.

We shared everything together, my cigarettes and I. They were there when I was angry or scared. They were there when I celebrated too. My smokes waited at the bus stop with me, filled in pauses and all sorts of gaps in time. The one thing with whom I shared all.

I revelled in their company, their steadfastness, their constancy. They gave my days purpose. My cigarettes shrouded me in mystery and I was not alone. There were others who understood what my cigarettes meant to me. They knew who I was, what I had. My identity, my escape.

Like all affairs however, the one-sidedness of the relationship slowly dawned on me. A creeping deceit that could only leave me empty, lonely. They were not all they appeared to be. They eroded me. We no longer met out of choice. It was more like blackmail. Yet as it soured below, it continued to be sweet on the surface. How I yearned for the ignorance and bliss.

I could not ignore my awareness however. It must end. It was a gut wrenching break-up filled with tears, fears, recriminations and longing. They begged to come back, "Don't leave me, you're nothing without me, remember the good times." I couldn't bear to let go, so I took them back.

But it was bittersweet, it was not the same. It was merely an interlude, a memory. I grieved for my lover, not for what was, but what appeared to be. I came to choice. We parted. I am at peace.