Ashes fall from his cigarette and onto my skin; becoming a part of me, turning me old and uncomfortable. The images of these falling ashes are so vivid in my mind, the smell so strong, as the (dis)taste instantly foams in my mouth. These little flecks of grey; (insignificant), (unnoticeable), no one else seems to see them float.

They seem so melancholy, flying all around the car, making their way out the window and into dirty, polluted air. They fall to the back seat of the car, landing on my cheeks, my shoulders, sometimes my eyes and mouth. I want to reject them. Go away, ashes. I hate the colour grey, though I realize it is becoming a part of him. His eyes, his hair, the smoke that constantly envelopes him. Not black, but g r e y, reminds me of death. How can death blossom from a man so full of life?

He does it so often now, without regret. One day he won't be himself anymore; he will be a different man. Ashes will settle across all his features, until there is

no more c o l o u r.

Grey taints my world.