Smokey Nights

Inhale deeply, exhale slowly.

I watch the smoke dance around my fingertips.
It dances to the sound of my broken heart, singing the song of all that's passed.

All that's broken, can be fixed.
Well that's not true, is it?
Some things were made to be broken.

My cigarette splits at the filter, and the dancing stops.
I wonder if there's some type of symbolism in that.. I wonder if I really care.