The smoke I breathed in
Is breathed out.
It’s flown. I can’t see.
It’s gone, but I stand out
That I can feel.
The cigarette is ending,
But I don’t
Want it to end.
Outside is cold
But I stand still,
Because I miss my home.
And haven’t written,
It seems,
For ages,
But it’s enough to move
When I am here.
Don’t want to go,
But it is what I need:
To left behind
The cigarette
That one day I again will smoke.