You’re my trigger person, just being around you makes me want a cigarette.
But the feel of my own lungs inhaling ash never equates to watching you do it.
I think I want a cigarette,
but I when I catch the little popping noise your lips make
when you inhale quickly,
or your strong old hands coming
again to your lips,
or your lips,
shrouded in hazy exhale hedonism,
I realise that really I just want to watch you.
I wish I could smoke the watching.
Maybe I wish I could smoke you.