The Fugitive Shape of Smoke

A ring blown from cracked lips, it lingers—

floating slow, trembling on the edge of night.

Rain slides down the glass, blurring the shape,

a fragile loop of breath, then nothing.

It wobbles, defies the damp, then breaks

like brittle memory spilling through fingers.

The smoke dissolves, unclaimed, unsure—

a fading thought, a fragile blur.

Gone before meaning takes form,

a ghost trapped inside a storm,

something caught, then lost again,

vanishing in the city's rain.