The frost clung to glass like secrets, Smudges of smoke, lives half-lit. He sat, silent, stitched from shadow, A cigarette ember, the only pulse left. Outside, the world melted slow— Engines humming dirges for no one, Clouds heavy with the weight of nothing, And the road led nowhere but here. He watched time stall, A winter-broken mirror. The light—faint, fractured— Just a memory trying to burn.