One Breath
From smoke, memory, and the place where I am becoming myself
Where I come from, the air is heavy.
Not just with heat, but with things unsaid.
Every breath feels like it carries old stories I never chose.
Where I come from, pain does not knock.
It sits quietly in the corner.
You learn early that silence keeps you alive.
Where I come from, a cigarette is never just a cigarette.
It is a pause between thoughts.
A small fire to keep the past warm.
When I light one, memory lights up with it.
Her face appears, uninvited but familiar.
The one who left without explaining how to forget her.
Where I come from, love was intense and unfinished.
Promises were whispered, not written.
And when she left, she took the future with her.
Where I come from, smoke rises slowly.
Like feelings you pretend are gone.
Like words you never sent.
The first drag burns.
The second feels normal.
By the third, I am somewhere else entirely.
Where I come from, the mind remembers what the heart hides.
A smell, a song, a moment at the wrong time.
That is all it takes to reopen old doors.
Where I am now is between who I was and who I might become.
Not broken, but not whole.
Just standing still while the world keeps moving.
Where I am, nights are long.
Thoughts move faster than sleep.
And the past feels louder after midnight.
Where I am, I replay conversations that never ended properly.
What I should have said.
What she never explained.
Where I am, I understand something important.
She was not the pain.
The attachment was.
Real life teaches this slowly.
A friend once told me he quit smoking but still missed her.
That is when I learned the cigarette was only the messenger.
Where I am, I no longer blame myself for remembering.
Memory is not weakness.
It is proof that something mattered.
Where I am, I try not to fight the feeling.
I let it pass like smoke through open fingers.
Holding tighter only makes it stay longer.
Where I am, I am learning replacement, not escape.
When the urge comes, I walk.
I write one honest line instead of lighting fire.
Where I am, I ask better questions.
Do I miss her, or the version of me she saw?
Do I miss love, or being chosen?
Where I am going is quieter inside.
Not empty.
Just peaceful.
Where I am going, memories no longer control my breath.
They visit, but they don’t stay.
I decide when the door closes.
Where I am going, I am building a fire for warmth, not destruction.
Burning old habits.
Keeping lessons.
Where I am going, I forgive myself.
For staying too long.
For hoping when I should have healed.
Where I am going, I choose clarity over comfort.
Growth over nostalgia.
Breath over smoke.
Where I stand now is not failure.
It is transition.
The slow chapter before life gets good.
And when I look in the mirror,
I do not see perfection.
But I do see someone still here.
Breathing.
Learning.
Becoming.
That is enough for today.
About the Creator
Salman Writes
Writer of thoughts that make you think, feel, and smile. I share honest stories, social truths, and simple words with deep meaning. Welcome to the world of Salman Writes — where ideas come to life.
Keep reading
More stories from Salman Writes and writers in Poets and other communities.
When I Finally Let God Carry Me
There comes a point in life when a person becomes tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long day or a sleepless night, but the kind that settles deep in the bones. A tiredness of the soul. I reached that point slowly, step by step, without even noticing how heavy my heart had become. I thought I was moving toward the future I wanted, pushing through storms because I believed my way was the only way. I fought every wave. I resisted every turn. I tried to fix every problem alone.
By Salman Writes2 months ago in Poets
Comments (1)
I like how you show this in between time where we are becoming whole again and crafting a new thing from our pain. It’s really beautiful and feels familiar