He sits on the cold pavement,
back against the world,
eyes lost in a sky too vast,
too indifferent to a boy
who once dreamed of touching it.
The cigarette flickers between his fingers,
a quiet rebellion, a silent scream.
Smoke coils like memories—
of failures, of love lost,
of roads that led nowhere.
Maybe this is all there is—
a tired soul, an empty night,
a battle no one sees.
Then, a voice—soft yet firm.
"Got a light?"
He looks up, startled.
A stranger, wrapped in the wind,
eyes carrying storms of their own.
"You look like a man
who’s been running from himself,"
the stranger says, lighting his own cigarette.
"But the thing about running—
it never gets you anywhere."
A pause. A knowing glance.
"Maybe it’s time you walked instead."
The words settle like embers in his chest.
For the first time in a long time,
he exhales without regret.
The cigarette burns,
but tonight, so does something else—
a spark, a reason.
He stands up,
dusts off the weight of yesterday,
and starts walking forward
