4am on a Tuesday.

I remember the night I met you.
It was October-chill not January-cold
and I was in my
faded parka.
The one where the elastic had started
to breakout of the fabric
and my scuffed Dr. Martens too.
My hair was dark then
long and curly too.
I wore more make-up then than I do now.
It was 4am on a Tuesday
and I had work the next morning
as I always did
but that didn’t matter ’cause
you needed a cigarette.

That was the first lie you told me
and it was only 3 years later I found out that
the whole time
you had a half-empty packet of Marlboro lights,
in the pocket of your dirtied jeans,
the whole time.

Smoking kills.



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