What's Your Cigarette?

What's your cigarette? He asked

You mean, like the brand i prefer?

Foolish question for a non-smoker

I laughed, awaiting explanation 

Wondering how he'll get past

The embarrassment of forgetting 

I've always been allergic to smoke

But he doesn't fumble with words

Instead, he looks at me

Quite calmly, as if his next sentence

Is already a modified script 

As if he's about to make a poem

The thing about me and poetry is

I have never been the muse 

I'm scared of the question now

The one he truly meant to ask

So I make up an excuse

"I think my mum's calling"

Because now that he knocked

On the door to my soul

I'm sixteen again, scarred & afraid

No matter your age

Your first call of plea is your mother

Until she's the one causing the pain

But he stops me before i can run away

His fingers grasp my backpack

And pull me close again

Looks in my eyes and says

"Tell me what it is

What you do to excuse yourself

From the grief of reality

What you cannot stop doing

No matter how good life gets

Because somewhere deep down

You're still the kid

Who had to mature before her age

Tell me where it hurts

I promise i dont carry the salve."

I was taken aback

How could he know that?

Did he just read my mind?

When did i tell him this 

A wounded person doesn't want reassurance 

As much as she wants to be understood 

When you understand what pains a person

You don't dare touch the wound

You give it time

But if you never acknowledge it 

You are bound to brush across again and again

Hurting them more in the process

This is what i told my cigarette 

Before it burnt my hand.