Dear slim, white, stick of rolled virgin leaves, crafted by mine own loving hands,
Shall I compare thee to a sunset evening? With your waxing-waning crimson glow, your warmth delivered within-without. Demure, you peer through smokey clouds, awakening my lust with your coy smiles, only driving on your own destruction, for I am promiscuous, and shall find another ere you are even half a sundial segment gone, and no tears shall I weep for our fleeting pleasure game: my new interest already at my lips.
But, surely, no grudge you bear me? What could be more unhappy than a smoke without a smoker? And though I am a fickle, crass companion, you never cease to yield up your sweet aroma hit: in my more egocentric moments, I should imagine you to be excited by my mysterium, my capricious promises while we spend this time together.
And, now, as your time is drawing to a close, and flecks of nico resin fleck your snow white gown, take comfort from the fact that, though you leave this mortal world, I have memorialised, immortalised you here, to live forever in my thoughts.
With love, dear Scarlet Lady Marlboro,
I did not stub out this cigarette: I let it burn out. All I can hear now is the screaming of someone burning to death. I can’t imagine stubbing it out would have been any more humane; that’s just being crushed, no? Inadvertently I may have just invented Cigarette Rights. Oh, God, and I was planning to smoke forever…