They do.
Insidious by nature, fostering an insatiable lust for its alluringly permissible poison. Every lit cigarette represents the love of death and the death of love. Nothing rivals a cigarette burning at night. Hopeful eyes gaze in a blissful charm of ignorance, anticipating the soothing aroma of the sweetest toxin soon to suffocate the night air.
The sound of my calloused thumb stroking over the flint wheel of my light, sparking the fluid is but a subtle thrill, but it isn’t that what renders it ardent. The delicate flame kisses the tip of the cigarette that lay pursed on my lips, and a miniature inferno flows and emits a breath of carbon monoxide into my eager lungs, as I inhale with unrequited desire to soon plead for more.
Begging with a heart as black as gold.
The flame illuminates amid the darkness, kindling in a gateway to seductive solace and elegantly dancing and bending to the will of darkness without reservation. Smoke billows through the dense, murky path of relaxation as my lungs exhale freedom.
Perhaps not as free as they are now. The true beauty is the tantalizing fruit in flirting between life and death, lit only by the cherry to lead the way in the darkness.
Because cigarettes burn better at night.
