Preoccupied with the thought of my boyfriend and the weekend we've spent together, I got off the Metro this morning at Farragut North and headed straight for a park bench. I needed a Marlboro Menthol like I've never needed one before.

If smoking is bad for you, then smoking menthols is even worse. At least this is what my friend told me yesterday afternoon during lunch -- without a trace of irony -- as he puffed away at his Parliament Light. I've been warned of the dangers of menthol cigarettes many times before. Allegedly, the menthol molecules crystallize in your lungs and otherwise damage your health. Better to smoke nonmenthol cigarettes, they say.

(Though this tangent is apropos of nothing, I did do some research: According to this article on salon.com, the menthol in menthol cigarettes is no more dangerous than the hundreds of other chemicals you breathe in while smoking. The fact remains, of course, that smoking is undeniably bad for you.)

Regardless of jeopardizing my health, that cigarette allowed me five minutes of oxygen-deprived solitude to contemplate the past four days. I had spent every waking (and sleeping) moment with my boyfriend, and I never got sick of him. Not even once. And that's saying a lot, because I'm a guy that needs his space. I'm going to miss him like crazy.

My bed is going to feel so empty tonight. Sleeping with ghosts, it's such a lonely experience.