Cigarette

He took me out of his pocket,

Playing me between his fingers

before placing me

in his milktea-stained lips.

He filled his lungs

with the already nicotined and polluted air of his worries,

blowing me a gentle exhale that made me shiver.


"It's not gonna light itself."


The touch of the flame was pain and honey sweet.

I didn't mind.


I didn't mind at all.


He took his sweet first puff

and let it linger inside his mouth,

his eyes glimmering,

hands shaking.


We went on.


He inhaled.

I hurt.


I didn't mind at all.


My ashes drifted in the hazy air,

like fallen feathers from a dying angel.


I knew.

But I didn't mind at all.


Until,

he had come to the end of me,

consumed all of me

and

I am nothing

but a twisted burnout cigarette

on a dusty sidewalk.