A Breath of Fresh Air.

We had gone out for a ‘breath of fresh air’;

(that’s what they called it,

smiling at the paradox as they spoke)

inhaled the smoke and watched it curl under,

laughing and talking of travel.

Later you would tell me I was a breath of fresh air,

when we sat freezing in each others arms

and traced the constellations.

I was smoke;

is that what you meant?

Was I paper burning between you fingers

and your lips?

not quite touchable, tangible

there.

Did my naivety make you hunger for cigarettes;

crave tobacco warmth and

dry mouths filled with paper heat?

Maybe that is why

you inhaled me.

--

I think with a taste you knew--

I was not your nicotine,

but you smoked far too much,

because you were mine,

and at once I was addicted.