I still smell of your smoke.
Wisps of carbon monoxide ribbons
through my hair and allows me one more
glimpse of me, sitting over there.

I still smell of your smoke.
Your laugh sending dragon puffs
whistling on the wind, the warmth of
it, of you, of here, beckoning me closer in.

I still smell of your smoke.
Roll up placed between fingers, resting
by my side. Your light hearted words a
whisper, of the defence you hide behind.

I still smell of your smoke.
Tar resting on my clothes, a
memento of the addiction I
once did swear to loath.

I still smell of your smoke.
simple, but it's true.
Every time I breathe it in I
can't help but think of you.

Smells good.

You know, if I had a penny for every poem I have read with the theme of
"You don't know what you have until it's gone"
I would be a rich man
It's a shame that it took me seventeen years and a handful of special people
To realize that sometimes clichés are correct

I am not sure if you are aware
But each time you inhale
It is called an inspiration
And each time you exhale
It is called an expiration
So here I sit
Echoing a process that has been perfected throughout the millennia
Except I guess perfected would be a strong word
Because we don't have it right just yet

You were someone who inspired me
To become someone who I could be proud of
Someone whose own stories set my blood on fire
And filled me with hope that I could take the raw elements
Of myself and forge them into something great
Because that is exactly what you did

Just a milkman's son
Who ended up becoming the smartest man I know
Who taught thousands of students
Both privileged and poor
And couldn't tell the difference between the two
Who inspired two generations of people
To learn
To love
To laugh
Whose little gestures meant the world
To everyone who had the fortune to inhabit yours

Your five sons went on to become
Doctors and lawyers
Businessmen and police officers
Even if one wanted to be a clown
You married a beautiful woman
Who walked with love in her heart
And kindness kneaded into her hands
Your grandchildren, while there are a lot of us
Each owe you for the knowledge and kindness you instilled in us
All this from a milkman's son

This poem isn't goodbye
Because each time I draw inspiration from the atmosphere around me
I am thinking of you and I hold that **** breath for as long as I can
Just waiting for inspiration to hit me
I squeeze my eyes closed and hope against hope that everything is going to be okay
Because I am too  scared to let that inspiration go, I am not ready to expire

So grandpa,
Please
For me
Take that breath.

She would drown him in her own tears
Fighting for the light
That came at the end of a tunnel
Too long to walk alone

He held her hand just long enough
For the trust to be built
And when he felt her stumbling
He'd only hold on tighter.

One day the tunnel was particularly dark
And she particularly blind
He said I've had enough
And headed to the other side.

He'd been drowning far too long
It was time to take a breath
He tried not to care
If she got lost

Gone was her umbrella
Her protector

And she gasped for air as her tears began to drown her
She searched frantically for the arm she'd held so tight
Only to find her own feet beneath her
And a journey half finished

With each step she found her strength
She began to trust her own legs
Her tears began to clear
She could breathe again