Fog Threshold

The water breathes itself upward, a slow exhale turning the world soft at its edges. Where the jetty was certain, now only the memory of wood—we walk toward ourselves made vague.

Light comes differently here, scattered, patient, finding its way through what refuses to be seen whole.

The horizon has folded inward. We are both more alone and less lonely, wrapped in this turning away that turns us toward each other.

Shapes emerge like recollections— not quite real, not quite forgotten, the way a face becomes a feeling when held at the edge of vision.