Tag: quiet pain

Cigarette burns slow—

like regrets that don’t scream,

just smolder in the quiet

until you notice the damage.

They don’t rush.

They take their time

etching memory into skin,

into hours you thought would pass

cleanly.

Smoke curls like excuses,

soft, convincing, temporary—

but the mark stays.

Always does.

Some pain doesn’t explode.

It waits.

And by the time you feel it,

it’s already part of you.