my room smells like a man who you walk by on the sidewalk

who smokes cigarettes for breakfast and then sprays on a few coats of cologne to hide the stink and shame

but in reality the smoke is still with him

it's in his clothes

it's in his hair

it's on his hands

it's stained his mouth

it's festering in his lungs

so

why does he do it?

go through the trouble of trying to sneak past others without letting them know of his habit

without having to talk to them because he knows how bad his breath stinks despite how he brushed his teeth three times

and how his hair stinks even though he rinsed and repeated twice.

because

the smoke envelops him in a comforting, feather soft embrace that only its hands can touch him with

the smoke burns his lungs so he can feel again

and the smoke burns his eyes and nose when he brings the cigarette too close to his face

but that's okay

because the feeling of goodness and sedation afterwards is too rewarding, too addicting.

it's too addicting.

he's too addicted.

he's hurting himself. he's hurting himself.

he's knows it. he does.

but he'd do anything for another one,

another brief vision of clouds (it's just the smoke) in the starry midnight sky,

another hug.

Another hug

another dose of love

another puff.

Another puff.

Another cigarette. And another.