The Smoke

The fire passed.
The mirror cracked.
And I’m still here, breathing smoke.

No one claps for survival.
No one sees the quiet part.

You stop needing applause.
You stop explaining your scars.

That gut—the one that used to whisper?
Now it rings like tinnitus.
Not pain.
Just presence.
A signal you finally hear.

You hear a young man talk like he’s sure.
And you remember.
Not because you’re wiser—
just older.
You’ve seen cause
turn into consequence.

Causality’s not taught.
It’s earned.
One cut at a time.
One ripple at a time.

That’s the thing about smoke—
it lingers.
Not fire.
Just memory.
And it follows.