Craving (1/13/11)

I want to taste you.
I’ll put up with second hand smoke
to let my tongue sample
your cold,
nicotine tinged,
mouth.

Grasping your hand,
up to my nose,
like how my Grandmother licks her plate
for the last tiniest bit of flavor,

to smell the tips
of your fingers,
still lingering with the ghosts
of your Camel cigarettes,

which have seeped

their characteristics upon you

after years of repetition.

But even I have levels I won't stoop,

like accompanying you

outside in bad weather

when your habit is prohibited,
(you’re on your own)
or sharing in a drag,
as to not get too accustomed
to associating vice
with pleasure.

So while you're refining

your motor skills,

that graceful grip,

the rise and fall

of the last one before bed,

I inhale deeply

to get a whiff of that spot
in the middle of your chest,

marked by a school-boy tuft of hair,

substituting you as a pillow

since extra ones are sparse,

filling my lungs

with the aroma

of the essence of you,
and no tobacco could be as satisfying,

or as sweet.