He is of nicotine.

He is dark eyes shining under a strong brow and a regally carved face. He is deep-set eyes that remind you of someone you once knew and loved, long ago. He is sharply cut cheekbones and the neat, too-clean line of a nose. He is straight teeth and the soft bow of thin lips; he is the sculpted curve of a strong jaw.

He is the gentle sweep of richly ochered hair, the color of dark mahogany and aged teakwood. He is the slope of tapered shoulders and a thin waist, of tall ease and long, cold fingers.

He is nikot.

He has a smile that fills out his features so beautifully that for the slightest hint of a moment, you cannot help but stop and drink in his radiance. He has a smile that, when you really look at it, makes you wonder why he does not smile more. He has a smile that you cannot help but want to see again and again.

He has the kind of sunny warmth that sketches your figure in resplendent lines. He has the kind of love that he does not keep contained within the narrow bones of his rib cage, the type of tenderness that he lavishes upon the gorgeous blue as if he is an untapped reserve of love. He has the kind of love he sows so freely into the fresh soil that you cannot help but wonder if the world glows rosier from all the gold that he exhales.

He is nikotin.

When you love him, he is of nicotine and cologne, of indulgence and lightheartedness. When you love him, you will wonder if the gentle map of your hands on the edge of his jaw and the curve of his cheek will soften those regal edges. When you love him, his embrace will be your gilded bastion, gleaming and lustrous in the creamy, velvet light.

When you are in love with him, then I cannot say.

But when you love him, on nikotina.