Butane blue lights his cancer stick
like the colour of his eyes,
Breathes in miasma, the apple in his throat bobs,
Toxic curls around him in tendrils
and dissolves into the night air

He raises an eyebrow and looks at me, curious:
Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?
I really like his hair,
Wanna feel it in-between my fingers,
Glad he can’t know what I’m thinking
but he stares at me as if he does,
Burning underneath his butane blue gaze

I can hate him at this moment,
Incinerating any capability of lucid thought
but I relish the flames, thinking
I used to love the cold.