There’s something sadistic about cigarettes,
and the way they fondled your hands
like the way you used to ****** me,
hard and rough.
There’s something sadistic about the way they ****,
slow and steady,
like your words and how you purred them into my ears.
Their smell, coats and lingers for what can seem like years.
Just like your Old Spice body and strawberry scented hair,
because 4 years later the scent sticks to my nostrils
like a child clings to their mother.
There’s just something sadistic about the way a cigarette can look so **** good on you.
A fashion accessory, licensed to ****