In the Thickness of Forgetting

Fog settles like breath on glass, each layer erasing the last— the world becomes a watercolor running inward.

We walk through pearl-white nothing, our voices thin and strange, as if sound itself is dissolving into the same soft weight.

A tree emerges half-formed, its branches sketched in suggestion, and I understand: this is how memory works, how we lose the hard edges and keep only the outline of what moved us.

The fence appears and vanishes, a boundary that isn't, a boundary that always was, and I'm learning to love what I cannot hold— this fog, this forgetting, this becoming-unmade.