I suppose this is what you would refer to as a prose poem.
Doflamingo reached across the table and took the cigar dangling from Crocodile's lips. He rolled it between his fingers, spreading the smell of fine fermented tobacco leaves across his skin. His favorite scent. It nestled into the pores, sticking warm, oily and tired before the heat of the room rubbed it dry.
Crocodile watched the cigar perform another quick twirl before taking shelter in Doflamingo's mouth. His lips cradled it before breaking into a wide, exposed grin. Those fine white teeth knew nothing about cigars, and the lungs could not handle the strong taste. It was a smile that adored the flavor after it had been filtered though a mouth, intermixed with saliva and desire.
While one man began coughing the other drew his eyes downward, resting on the busy chessboard that had started this mess. Doflamingo began the game with the black handicap, but ended with just two moves away from conquering Crocodile's white. In any other occasion the gold hook would have been drawn, threats cast out at the mere mention of sharing his expensive taste with childish behavior.
But Doflamingo had proven himself an admirable opponent, and Crocodile supposed there were worse ways to celebrate his defeat. He reclined into his seat, analyzing the chessboard, wondering where things had gone wrong for him and right for Doflamingo, and doing so with an amused smile as he listened to the victor struggle breathing in his trophy.