Forsake

The fog here stretches out such an awfully long way. Each break between cloud and clear lasting longer than anyone could know. They form a net, together intricate, ornately woven, letting only flares of light through. The kind you see out of the corer of your eye. The kind that fills up your whole head as you reach from awake in to dreaming. A car window is too small. In one fragile, prolongued breath, the millions of square centimetres just below the surface, every fraying hem, mouth corner, rising and falling. And rising. What happened to you? There is no jump, no landing. Only darting, trembling, words and more words in waves. Hands reach through and unhook, pupils shrink one after the next, and the mist does hit a glass plane before it begins to trickle away.