Hands of glass and shadow count cigarettes, fingers know the ritual by heart, a spark leaps from a transparent flame, as if desire ignites itself again and again.
Packs lie gathered like silent witnesses, warnings whisper but go unheard, smoke is a language that slowly fades, a breath suspended between comfort and loss.
An ashtray waits, filled with remnants of time, matches and lighters dream of flame, in this fragile stillness the habit burns on, a breakable circle of human need.
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