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.
