“It’s raining. Again,”
He mutters to himself as he steps out onto the porch,
Withdrawing from his pocket the half-smoked clove cigarette
Which he had abandoned before Ritual.
(Better just to take a puff or two,
Enjoy the buzz, but butt it out
Before the high gets too serious.)
Lighting the stub from a burning candle,
He sucks a thick, airy cloud into his lungs–
Fiberglass shards cutting into the soft pink of the lungs,
Tar (perhaps) smoothing over the bleeding.
He licks his lips and all he tastes is cinnamon.

Such a decadent pleasure is smoking,
He only allows it to himself once a month at best;
Maybe to look sexy (he knows how to French-inhale,
Picked it up from an exquisite Goth in college),
Or after a sweaty tumble with one of the real smokers,
If he’s been particularly aggressive.
He peers through the glass door and spots
The big strong one in the “Bewitched” T-shirt
With whom he’s flirted at the last several Circles.
“Looks like he’s leaving now, maybe I should….
(He’s glad he came; he probably needed the energy, the touch.
Everyone else seems afraid of even his skin.)”

Night becomes day for a moment and the thunder rolls.
He watches the rain and inhales deeply of his clove,
Each drag a quiet prayer
Offered up toward heaven
For a merciful release.