Drag

Your cigarette.  Your subtle strike of a match.
The pull and release of air, with smoke, that drops
like a sideways tear into the winter wind
hangs on my nostrils, grabbing once or twice
at fibers poised to sense, to feel with flavor.
The smell I've never ingested.  Intentionally.

I've broken you.  You crack — like good bacon.
But sins are often lies, used incorrectly,
and lies are hands, with fingers stroking low
on the face of another. Cheeks. And bones.  And lips
so ready — poised — like trouble worn on the limbs
of sneaky children.
			Close your eyes and drag
again.  I've never missed your smile, but life,
like us, can set the prices on its own.