In the quiet curl of smoke, a whisper heard,
A gentle sigh from lips that softly part,
Tales of dreams and moments left unstirred,
A silent echo in the beating heart.

The ember’s glow, a dance of fleeting grace,
In swirling patterns, secrets lightly spun,
An intimate retreat, a sacred space,
Where thoughts unfurl beneath the setting sun.

With every breath, a life in fragile strands,
A tapestry of memories and time,
The cigarette, a poet with no hands,
Writing stories in the air, a fleeting rhyme.

Yet in the haze, a solitude profound,
A quiet pause amid the world’s embrace,
Where every puff, a moment’s lost and found,
In the tender, smoky cradle of its trace.