I Don't Smoke

My mind is always thinking of you,
and it's like you are
smoke.

You stick in my mind,
like the smell lingers in clothes,
and like how it clings to the walls of this house.

And I find myself,
doing laundry slowly,
so I can inhale each thought once more.

There is a fear,
that after each wash,
you will not be there.

But I hope my mind holds onto you
like the walls here changed color.

The nicotine mixed into the paint.
You mixed into my soul.

I don't smoke,
but I find myself,
fantasizing about the desire.

Dreaming about holding you
in my hands,
pressed to my lips.

Breathing you in,
puffing you out,
greedily wanting more.