I exhale into the night, smoke leaving my mouth, like a five year old who has discovered the phenomenon of seeing his own breath on a cold night. I particularly like the miscellaneous designs the exhale creates, vanishing into nothing, like whipped cream the barista puts in my coffee that I can rarely afford.

I smoke it to the filter, flicking its remains to the ground and watch as the sparks disappear in the gravel. Next to me, my friend quickly puts out hers and joins me in her car.

It leaves me thirsty, but it is the taste I enjoy. I lick my lips and smack my tongue several times, milking the lingering taste in my mouth. Memories flood my thoughts.

Him.

Nights like these were the nights that we spent together what seemed so long ago. So few, yet so vivid. He's take my hand and I'd follow him outside for fresh air, after remaining in his stuffy apartment all day. Then, as he'd finish his cigarette, and on occasion, I'd finish mine, we'd retreat inside and continue loving one another.

His taste of tobacco was intense as my voracious tongue eagerly teased his, begging to know his mouth; or as I went down on him shortly before a long fuck in the dark to nearly unremarkable music, drowned out by wanton moans and our mingled breathing.

And in the morning, as the dreg of tobacco rolled off our naked condensed bodies while we soaked in the shower, I closed my eyes in gratification, inhaling, holding his back as his length digs into the pouch of my lower stomach, and the steam bellows around our heads until the hot water ceases.

I'm leaving, finally, to return home. There is no telling of when I'll see him next, and as my friend drives me away, I struggle to take my eyes off of him.

And yet, his cigarette lingers under my tongue.