The Cigarette

He sits on the curb, feet flat on the street watching the widespread types of vehicles speed by with frequent honks of the horn. Rarely does he glance up to look into the eyes of those who pass by, those whose minds are far from his situation and whose feet are en-route to a million different locations within the city. Instead, his eyes just stare at the dust and trash-ridden gutter. His rough and dirty hands clutch a thin piece of cardboard upon which he had scribbled some incoherent plea an age ago with a dried-out marker. His make-shift sign and grimy clothes seem to only attract stares of disgust and indifference rather than the desperately needed pocket change of the wealthy businessmen which noisily bounces and collides within their pockets.
He closes his eyes and appears to those around him to have lulled into a sleep, but in actuality his mind is racing like a mouse caught by the tail in a trap. His ass feels as though it is glued to the cement when what he desires most is to get up and accomplish something. Fear grips him. How could he make it in a world that sees him as an animal? Where does one start to rebuild his life after years of a static existence.
Dismissing these stressful thoughts, he reaches into the pocket of his worn pants and pulls out a bent cigarette accompanied with a cheap lighter. He puts the cigarette to his lips and inhales as the flame sexually dances for the tobacco. The first drag goes down and dwells in his lungs for as long as he can stand. His lungs soak in half of the drag and expel the rest. His mind eases. Drag after drag, his thoughts start to cease their worry about his current situation and instead focus on the beauty of his relationship with that cigarette. The cigarette clings to his body in a different way than his clothes do. The cigarette seems as though it exists for him, it lives for him and it dies for him. It touches him and fills him in a way that he doesn’t experience otherwise. The cigarette loves him.