The Night I Burned Quietly

In the dark,

a cigarette burns my fingers—

the same way loneliness did.

Slow.

Quiet.

Leaving scars

no one ever asks about.

The smoke climbs the ceiling,

like questions

that never learned how to land.

Ash drops to the floor—

soft, careless—

like the parts of me

I’ve been losing

one night at a time.

I don’t know

if I’m holding the fire,

or if the fire

is holding me hostage.

All I know is—

we’re both getting smaller.

We’re both learning

how to disappear

without making a sound.

And in this room,

in this hour,

the glow fades,

the breath thins,

and something in me whispers:

" even fire gets tired

of trying to stay alive."