Every now and then I catch the dark lingering wafts of smoke. It emanates from me. I hate that smell. The smell of cancer and death, the smell of disease and addiction. The smell of you. I stink of you. Yet I find myself breathing more frequently as though I can't place it. I just want to be sure, that it's me and not you, because of course, you're not here. In the darkness of my mind or in the empty rooms, the crowded cafes I go, to wake up and smell the coffee. My mind floats to the spaces where we sat together, the car where the smoke found no escape. The way it created fog and a dream like state. Now it's trapped in the fibres of my clothes, each strand of my hair, it clings to me like a second skin. Yet I smother my face in your sweater and take deep breaths in of smoke soaked oxygen, there's something about your smell I find comforting and that is quite disturbing.