I never could light my own cigarette.
You used to joke about my saliva touching the tip of my Marlboro, about how it never seemed to be perfectly lit, or about how it I accidentally ashed on your favourite blue shirt.
You used to make fun of me because it seemed simple, though you knew i never could seem to be cautious enough.
When I ran out of my supply of matchsticks and the pebbles refused to spark a fire, you used your cigarette to light my own.
You would play me a few of James Bay, make me sway to the soothing rhythm, huddled in warm whisps of smoke, your secure arms and unwavering affection.
Allegedly unwavering affection.
And now, its been another year; i can light a cigarette on my own, thankyouverymuch.
