You asked me why I started smoking. I didn’t have the balls to tell you it was because of you.

Well, not you exactly. It was the pictures of you and your fiance together. You know the ones: you and her smiling, you and her kissing. Yeah, it was definitely that.

The first time I saw those pictures is when I bought my first pack of cigarettes. And now every time I buy a pack, they have your name next to the telltale warning on the label.

With every cigarette that burns the back of my throat, I hope it will burn a memory of you away too. How many will it take before they’re all gone? 100 packs? A million? Should I keep smoking until I get lung cancer? Then will all the memories be eradicated from my brain? Probably not.

I can feel each one burning my insides. I don’t even like the feeling or the taste anymore, but its familiar. And you and I both know how comforting familiar things can be. That’s what makes it so hard to let go. To move on. To pick your sorry-butt off the concrete and say, “I’m going let myself be happy today.”

But we both know that isn’t going to happen. Not today, not tomorrow. Not until I quit smoking this useless sticks lined with cancer and regret. Not until your name stops making my heart beat faster and those pictures of you happy with someone else stop making my heart beat all together.

Until then, I wish you the very best. The very merry best with a cherry on top of your future marital success. And when you’re standing at the alter saying ‘I do’, I’ll be smoking a Newport in the pew of whatever church ordains your happiest of matrimonies. I’ll blow the smoke to the heavens and pray to the Gods of Nicotine to take me away from it all.