Breath Gone Wrong

He sat on the bench, by the cracked fountain,

old man, with patience for air and ash.

Blew perfect circles, one after another,

each one a small, precise rebellion.

They floated, slow against the gray sky,

a ghostly white, holding shape just for a breath,

before they frayed, just like that,

into nothing at all.

I watched them go, those careful exhalations,

each one a brief promise, then a quiet breaking.

He just kept making them, not even looking,

like he knew what it meant to try and fail so beautifully.