He always had a cigarette in between his fingers. He would smoke for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It served as his meals. He would smoke while driving or while sitting on the couch in front of the television with his ashtray within reach.
He smelled of smoke. I can't help but sniff it from when he hugs to greet me or taste it from his lips when we kiss. I thought it was just his clothes but later on I realized his skin was already coated with smoke.
I knew it was bad. It was bad for him and probably is for everyone, but I didn't stop him. I let him smoke. I let him do it every day. I even make the coffee he drinks while smoking.
I didn't let him do it because I was okay with it. I wasn't. I was far from being okay with it but I knew I couldn't stop him. I've told him a million times about how I think it's going to have a severe effect on his health but it didn't stop him. I knew nothing, no one, could ever stop him.
Smoke was just one of the factors. There was my good friend, wrong timing and what I strongly believe to be the universe's grudge against me.
He started to smoke long before our paths have crossed.
The smoke had him first.
It was probably why the smoke took him away from me like it had every right to.