The red of his cigarette lit up and between his lips came smoke. His eyes were coal and embers in one and it was tantalizing.
He stood there without a care and took another drag. His eyes lidded as the smoke filled his lungs and I wanted to be that smoke. I wanted to be what he was breathing, I wanted to be what he depended on.
The half-done cigarette was tossed to the ground and his boot stepped on it, putting it out. He turned to walk out and I still that smoke clung to him.
Walking by me he smelled like that tainted air and I knew I’d die to be that smoke. To touch his lips, to fill him, and to be imprinted on even the air surrounding him.