I'm a second hand smoker most nights.
I stare into the tip of the burning cigarette ****, waiting for the ash to fall and slowly float onto my tattered, yellow converse.
Each breath deeper than the next. His lips smothering the end until it reaches the filter.
Nothing left but a black and yellow nub. Its life, ****** dry.
With a flick of his finger, it falls to the ground in slow motion. Like we're in an old black and white film.
His cracked black doc martens crushing everything that was left of that tiny cigarette.
We leave, and it just lies there.
As if it were melted into the gravel.
Ripped to shreds and forgotten.
Huh.