Learning that Love is Boring

We have developed our own routine,
I in my room,
and you in yours.
And I have since locked myself into a prison of poems,
in which my self worth lies in words.
I don’t have the heart to tell you I used you,
But I have been craving a cigarette
after a year of trying you instead.
Your hand has become too much of a criticism
against my sagging skin,
your presence too much of a nagging
nuisance.

My Love is a cumpulsion
and done best from a distance,
as I sick and sob over your absence
and mourn you over a pack a day-
smoke this full figured form away
and become that girl again
that arched herself and swam in your
arms,
like the cover of a Harlequin-
a fantasy that used to end in
2o filters in a tray.