I wish he held me like he does his last cigarette.
Like that cigarette is the last bottle of water in the desert.
I wish he would inhale my scent like he did that toxic smoke.
Like the scent of me calmed his mind as much as the nicotine did.
I wish he would grasp me firmly on a winter morning like he did his last cigarette.
Waiting for a bus, or a train, sharing a piece of his day with me.
I wish he would want me, for a minute, for a moment.
But wishing for him, is wishing on a star that has been dead one hundred years, but still shines bright in the darkened sky.