And she was cigarette smoke, ugly and rank, clouding your vision and ruining the furniture. Maybe after years of breathing her in you were used to the haze. The cough was a daily nuisance, not a concern, or a symptom. She was tar and toxins, leeching her awful words into your veins to poison you slowly. You don’t breathe in the breeze, or a salty gust from the sea, the only air you could tolerate was her. She told you the cool night air would give you a cold, as her cancer grew in your jaw. Kissing her dead grey lips brought the nicotine, but it killed you.