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 🖤