Distance.

His hands balanced on the windowsill
stained with the tobacco in his finger tips and
caressed by the fleeting smoke.
He was shaking, and I could do nothing.
No hold that I give him is adequate- for he is not here, neither there.

I long to pull him with me, as he drags at the smoke
but I know there is no use.
He is too far away.
There are raindrops between our bodies but oceans between our minds
and I cannot swim that far.

Every time the smoke leaves his lungs I gasp for it,
every breath he takes fills my lungs with water.
How does he breathe so clearly whilst I am left to drown?
How does his ruination hold more life than the hands I reach to him with?

I yearn for his hesitant touch as he puts out his cigarette
but almost instantly, he is distracted.
I lose him to the hallucinogen of reality.