My hands are freezing but my throat burns with nicotine.

I’ve inhaled your name about seven times, exhaled and spelled it out with smoke.
It dissipates a few seconds later, much like the way my name probably does when it crosses your mind.

I could be cliche and lace this with lyrics; you’re worse than nicotine, you’re in the air I breathe, you’re all around me, you’re all I really need like your knack for *****, money, ****.

But none of it would suffice.

I’m sorry that my words come out like mace and I’m sorry for all the times that I’ve spit in your face but if you’d just give me an ounce of your grace, I’m sure we could leave this place and find somewhere for me to step into white lace.

Touch me, I want you to touch me there, make me feel like I am breathing — feel like I am human; but is it humane for me to breathe you in and want nothing more than to choke you out and lather, rinse, repeat?

Or should I drop the act and retreat, pretend that you’re nothing but a distraction and I don’t have time to be treated like a piece of meat?

Maybe that’s weak.

I’ve inhaled your name about fourteen times and my lungs are on fire.