The Last Cigarette

His fingers were frozen by the 20 degree winds.

He sighed as he lit his last cigarette.

It was the only thing he needed and the only thing he craved.

He pulled it away from his lips,

like detangling limbs from a sleeping lover.

He laughed, bitterly leaning against the iced over brick wall, pretending he didn’t miss the sound of her laughter.

Or how the sides of her eyes would crinkle when she smiled.

He missed how she shined more than the butt of his cigarette ever did.

The smoke brimming in his lungs and the harsh taste in his mouth diminished the memories of her lips pressed against his.

Nothing could fill his heart with such flame,

As the softness of her hands in his,

Or the feeling of air on the ground when she was around.

The flames lick at his cigarette.

Fire consumes the paper flesh

the way she consumed his attention as she walked into a room.

His eyes glass over almost frozen from the wind.

He tosses the last of his cigarette on the ground,

Crushed by the soles of his shoes.

She is just a distant memory now

Flatten and broken like a discarded cigarette laying on the pavement.