The Fog's Unbinding

The fog holds the city like a secret— every streetlight becoming a small sun, every sound arriving from somewhere else, arriving soft as the brush of dust.

In this whiteness, boundaries dissolve. Where does the air end and the world begin? I could be anywhere, anyone, suspended in becoming.

But then a car horn breaks through, the fog thins, and I am returned— to this corner, this day, this version of myself that remembers exactly where it stands.

Still, I hold the fog in my pocket, that brief unbounded thing, against the certainty that's coming.