Like the ashes that falls from the stick from the hand
Into the merciless and lonely room
in between those fingers
some things linger

Seated alone on the couch
Repeating those thoughts
amidst the smoke that floats
and those trails of thoughts run wild

As i laid the lit stick back down
afraid to wake up the past
whats left of the smoke
some things still linger

Unable to understand
maybe i could laugh it off
Whats I was afraid of was not lighting up again
but rather this pen on my hand once more