He spends a third of his time with a cigarette lit;
Comforted by the slight weight of it between his fingertips.
His head is perpetually surrounded and scented with smoke.

Last night, I woke up to a coughing fit;
The hacking sound of thick sludge from deep within his lungs trying to find its way out.
He spits globs of phlegmy mucus.

Every now and then,
I'll catch him putting two empty fingers up to his lips,
as if it's automatic;
nevermind that he doesn't have one yet lit.

I think he's comforted by it;
The smoke that encircles him like a phantom embrace -
There is someone whom he can't forget.

Lung cancer took his wife three years ago;
He's determined to also die from it.