Streetlights blink like half-healed scars,
Radio hummin’ through broken bars.
Memory taste like a nicotine kiss,
Dreams fade slow when they sound like this.
I been runnin’ in circles of my own design,
Chasin’ ghosts in a neon sign.
She said, “You still lost?” I said, “Maybe just driftin’.”
Smoke in the air, my soul in remission.

The past don’t burn, it just lingers on,
Perfume, pain, and the quiet dawn.

Welcome to smoke season —
where the air stay heavy, the truth stay hidden.
Can’t see clear, but I like the blur,
Every wrong turn still feels sure.
Smoke season — I breathe, I learn,
Love’s still warm in the things that burn.

I left my halo in the passenger seat,
Right next to guilt and a half-packed beat.
Every mile another piece of skin,
I shed the past, then crawl back in.
Clouds of confession fog the glass,
Can’t tell if it’s peace or just the past.
She text “You good?” — I leave it on read,
Some ghosts feel better left unsaid.

Yeah, I move through the haze like a half-awake prayer,
Faith in the fog, hope in the air.
Too tired to run, too proud to stay,
So I dance with the drift, let the night replay.
Life don’t pause, it just fade to grey,
Every sin got smoke that stays.
And maybe clarity’s overrated —
If it’s gone, at least I created.

Welcome to smoke season —
where the air stay heavy, the truth stay hidden.
Can’t see clear, but I like the blur,
Every wrong turn still feels sure.
Smoke season — I breathe, I learn,
Love’s still warm in the things that burn.

“Maybe we don’t need a way out…
just a way through.”