The Weight of the Fog
You hold me, and I try to press my forehead into your shoulder, searching for the anchor I used to rely on when the world got loud. But your arms feel polite now, careful and light, like you are holding something you’ve already decided to set down. I lean into you anyway, drinking in the small, fading mercy of it, knowing every second is a leaf falling from a dying tree. It is a lonely thing to love someone who is half-gone. To sit at the same table, pass the same bread, and feel an entire ocean expanding between two chairs. I don't pull you closer; I don't beg the tide to turn. I just gather the cold pieces of this fading warmth, wrap them tight around my shivering ribs, and learn how to mourn a love that hasn't even left the house yet. -LR 🖤