The Ring

He held the cigarette to his lips like he was keeping time.

Exhaled slow. The ring formed—

perfect geometry, light coming clean through the center,

a halo that had nothing to do with god.

I watched it hold.

Two seconds. Maybe three.

The air around it stayed still

like it was a small permission to believe in anything.

Then the edges softened.

The circle lost its crown.

The ring scattered into almost-nothing,

smoke returning to smoke,

precision becoming air.

He didn't seem to notice. Just stood there

smoking the next breath,

building the next small perfection

he would watch collapse,

each one the same as the last—

that moment of holding,

that moment of letting go,

that moment when you can't tell

which one cost more.

I wanted to ask him how many times

he'd blown that ring.

If it ever held longer.

If he'd ever stopped watching the moment

it started to break,

or if that was the only reason

to blow it at all—

to see how long precision lasts

before the world makes it ordinary again.