A cigarette dangling between her wine-soaked lips
thick black tresses falling over her face
like a curtain she didn’t want lifted.
Her laugh was as warm as that summer night
but if you listened closely
you could hear an echo of sadness.
I don’t smoke
but I asked her for a cigarette anyway.
And that night
under a canopy of stars and smoke
I fell in love with Natasha Roy.
She talked too fast
walked too slowly
and inhaled too many cigarettes a day.
She smelled of smoke
and lavender.
Stale and fresh.
Natasha spent her days in my mind.
Her bedside table held a dusty ashtray
overpopulated with rejection letters, breakups, but mostly
things she wished she had said before her father’s funeral.
Perhaps she hoped that her troubles, along with the cigarette smoke
would float away into oblivion.
I tried to hold her tight
but Natasha wasn’t somebody
who liked being held
or coddled or cuddled.
She thrived in isolation
masking her worries in the fog that always surrounded her.
She wore the cloud of smoke
as an armour
to protect herself from whatever was coming next.
Natasha was addicted to nicotine
and me, to her.
Addiction killed us both
her body
and my soul.
I don’t think I’ve exhaled Natasha Roy yet
I don’t think I ever will.
And it’s not my lungs I’m worried about
it’s my heart.
