I love the idea of smoke,
the fumes clinging to my lungs
and the exasperated gasp to regain air.

The smoke that can burn down a home,
a place filled with memories to be ruined,
ashes of forgotten darkness.

A smoke that can be a sign,
a scream for help and danger.
A reassurance to others of your struggle.

I like your smoke,
the intoxication of your breath,
mixing with mine in a moment of relief.
Before the bitter after taste of realisation.

For nothing can bring me joy,
nothing more than smoke can make me suffer.