Cigarette smoke
does not stay.
That is
part of the ritual.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Watch
something leave
you visibly.
There are nights
I stand outside
with the dark
pressed close,
ember glowing
between my fingers
like one
small warning light.
I know
what people
would say.
Bad habit.
Quit.
As if
I have never
heard the words.
As if
the body
cannot know
something is harmful
and still
reach for it
when the mind
needs five minutes
to be quiet.
I do not
romanticize
the smoke.
It clings.
It costs.
It asks
more than
it gives.
But there is
something honest
about watching
the breath
become visible.
For a moment,
everything
inside me
has somewhere
to go.
Then the wind
takes it.
If only
letting go
were always
that easy.
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