I Am Not Here.

As the night blooms
I sat by the window with my dead little friend.
I wish I could be with the wind
disappear into the breathless air.
My soul,
belongs to the night.

The smell of burning hair
would linger in the room for days.
Night animals softly whisper to me,
"...You are not here"

Seems like the smoke has
always been attracted
to the wind.
Poor existence.

I was living like a cloud
breathing like a fish
letting out smoke instead of bubbles.