Midnight in Paris, a Cigarette lit, Swirling Smoke and a Lingering Thought (Poem)

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Midnight in Paris, a Cigarette Lit, Swirling Smoke and a Lingering Thought

Midnight in Paris—
the streets exhaled softly,
stone and shadow loosening their grip on time.
A cigarette burned like a small confession,
brief, deliberate, and warm against the dark.

Smoke rose in slow spirals,
curling around thoughts that refused resolution,
each turn a question unanswered,
each pause a memory half-invited back.

The city watched without judgment.
Balconies slept, cafés whispered to ghosts,
and somewhere a clock pretended it mattered.
I stood still, letting silence finish its sentence.

The ember dimmed; the thought did not.
It lingered—
not heavy, not urgent,
but exact, like a truth one lives beside.

Midnight passed, unnoticed.
Paris remained.
And the smoke dissolved into the night,
leaving the thought behind,
perfectly intact.