His Cigarette

Sharp billows of black escape
Pressured release from contracting cylinders
I can taste the nicotine enter my senses
Skin absorbing like salt from the ocean

A ring of white appears
Tongue slightly visible as it leaves its cave
Shaping and carving like a sculpture
Soft tendrils twisting into an arrow

The point towards my defences
Gale force winds break down
Everything in their path, me
Him, the ground that opens below

Fog is what I'm accustomed to
Not this hurricane I receive
I grasp at it with everything but power
Words that choke as my mouth is busy

It is not I sinning I'm just getting
Second hand life, breath, air
Clouds that burst in my pink lungs
Grayness finding its place finally in my body

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