The bus drove away, leaving
my wallet, a silent witness
to the journey I didn't complete.
In the waiting room, as ash
fills the tray, I sit, counting
the spaces between breaths,
wondering about lost things.

The night air whispers softly,
each star a distant memory.
Cigarette smoke curls lazily,
dancing in the dim light,
as I recall the touch of leather,
the weight of coins now
scattered in another's hands.

Yet in this quiet room,
between echoes of footsteps,
I find a strange peace.
Not all endings are complete,
some are just pauses,
like the ash that falls,
settling without conclusion.