On my wooden table, there lies a jar of smoke.
Dark grey tendrils curl and twist inside the glass.
I look into my jar to reminisce and to remember-
The days which have long since passed.

I look into the heart of that ashen black unfurling cloud,
To see my life, my loves, my fears reflected in the murky wisps~
Each time I open up the jar a breath of smoke slips out, escapes
The nature of smoke is that it cannot be held by human hands-
It slips through fingers like sand,
It will not be caught by flesh.

Soon there will be nothing left,
But an empty jar on a wooden desk.