You hold the slender stick of incense  
between thumb and forefinger,
a quiet question framed in sandalwood.  

A tap of flame at its tip  
awakens latent murmurs  
that curl upward in a pale spiral.  

Smoke drifts like a slow confession,  
tracing loops in the still air,
an unseen calligraphy of scent.  

Each breath you draw expands  
that hidden manuscript:  
cloves, myrrh, cedar; fingers of dusk.  

At the stick’s hollow heart, the flame wanes,  
leaving a halo of ember  
that shifts from red to ash.  

Grey granules rain in silent punctuation,  
each flake a remnant phrase  
of transformation written in dust.  

Your palm catches the residue,
a fine, silver testament  
to what must become nothing.  

The aroma lingers,  
a ghost ache in the room,  
mapping absence where presence bloomed.  

Ash drifts down like memories;
tender, ephemeral, luminous;  
and the stick stands hushed, hollowed.  

In that hollow core, you glimpse  
the space between flame and ash,  
presence and departure.  

You cradle the empty stick  
as if it still holds a promise,  
a threshold waiting to be crossed.