Waiting for the Sun

The Fog He Brings

He drinks for the fog, and I am lost within it.

It rolls in slow, creeping, soft as mist upon my skin, until I can no longer tell where the man I love has gone.

At first, he is blurred, then shapeless, a shadow of himself, his voice thick with storm.

Words, once warm, turn sharp like cold wind. They bite. They tear. They linger, black and blue colored against my bones.

He drinks for the fog. And I wait for the sun, for the day it lifts, for the moment I breathe without him turning to rain.

Hoping I can find closure, when he’s sobered.

But then the sun rises, and light scatters the mist. He stretches, sighs, shaking off the night as if it never happened.

Welcoming me back into his warmth, kisses and hugs. I stay bleeding with my heart still in the fog. I’m afraid to bring it up at all.

The fog has lifted for him, but I still stand in its cold, holding the weight of the words that he doesn't remember were told.

This fog leaves you still waiting for the sun.