There are nights when I fall asleep in the clothing he so graciously lended to me. The smell they illuminate of cigarettes and alcohol became comforting to me and I found myself to be inconsolable without them. His memory should have faded a long time ago, but was kept alive by my vain attempts to keep it there. The tragic, and cliche, story of the girl who falls for the wrong boy. Oh, he was the wrong boy. And yet, no man could ever compare. Looking for him in every new boy I meet, no man could ever drown their sorrows with substance abuse as well as he could. As he spent our night together downing drinks, I could taste the whisky on his tongue. How delightful it was for my underage mouth. My lips were not the only thing pressed against his that night. After hours of his body on top of mine, he reached into the nightstand beside his bed and pulled out a pack of Newport cigarettes, along with a lighter.The suffocating aroma filled the room with each puff of smoke. My disgust of the stagnant smell of nicotine is an emotion I no longer feel. It all changed when he grabbed a hoodie of his for me to cover my naked body while we laid in his bed. The auroma stained the smell of all his clothes. Cigarettes became an addictive smell for me. Each night, I fell soundly asleep, covered in the smell of his cigarette stained sweatshirt. Infatuated by every part of him, the boy I can never touch again, the smell stayed with me. Longing for the now comforting smell of cigarettes, along with the taste of whisky stained lips, I search for it everywhere. Because of him, I now keep the same pack of Newport cigarettes in the drawer of my nightstand, next to the same brand of whisky. On nights when I crave him, I reach for the cigarettes and alcohol, as if they can bring him back. To be addicted is a scary thing. Anything, when done excessively, has the possibility of turning into an addiction. It is possible to become addicted to something just after one is introduced to it. Boy, am I addicted to him. Now, unable to sleep without reminiscing about a one night stand I shall never utter another word to. Come back to me. Let me taste the whisky from his tongue and savor the flavor once more. Let my nostrils burn from the suffocating smell of cigarette smoke he takes far too many puffs of. During the times I only am in the presence of myself, I fantasize and dream of tasting him one more time. And as I try to move on, going from man to man, afterwards I will always reach to my nightstand and inhale the smoke as he once did. I shall poison myself, trying so desperately to remember.