The Dark Cylinder of Your Half Smoked Cigarette

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 I can recognize your hand holding a cigarette if it were a drawing of millions of hands holding different types of cigarettes. I can recognize you fuming out the pain you held for years, the joys you carry in your heart and the excitement that explodes inside you so you hold 2 in your mouth. I can recognize your lips imprisoning this dark cylinder of your half-smoked cigarette. 

I wonder if you ever noticed that I didn't dare finish mine in front of you. As if crushing it in the ashtray means that it's over between us. Instead, I would always hand it over to you so you can finish it instead. And just like that, you finished us and you smoked me away behind the ashes. But I remain hidden inside your shirt, wrapping my hands around your neck. Never daring to let go. 

Sweep little monster. 

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