nostalgic cigarettes

No, mother, I have never smoked. But I can already feel the tip of the cigarette settle gently on my lips. Fits like a puzzle piece in between my pout, finally home, it says as I light it and celebrate the tradition. No, mother, I have never smoked. But I can't tell whether it's genetic, or that I've become accustomed to the smell, but every time the pain of realization of my existence takes over me I find myself yearning for a feeling having never felt, lusting for a pleasure having never tasted. I can already feel the smooth rolled piece of paper light and slowly crumble away along with my pain, taking it to a place far, far away. No, mother, I have never smoked. But I fear that I may.