The Weight of Morning Mist

My head still thrums with the ghost of last night’s jazz and too many glasses of cold Riesling. The air is thick—a wet, white blanket that tastes like salt and forgotten promises.
I can feel you behind me in the cottage, probably still tangled in linen sheets, your breath slow against my shoulder before I slipped away into this gray silence. My skin feels sensitive to everything: the bite of the morning chill on my bare back, the grit of old wood beneath my heels, and the lingering warmth where your hands rested just an hour ago.
In the city, we were always running—chasing deadlines through glass canyons, loving each other in stolen twenty-minute intervals between meetings. But here? Here time has dissolved into this mist. I walk toward the edge of the pier not because I want to reach anything, but because it’s a luxury just to be still.
I don't look back. I know you're watching me through the window—a silhouette in your own hazy world. For once, we aren't performing for anyone; there is no audience but the fog and our shared exhaustion. This silence isn't empty; it’s full of everything we finally stopped trying to say.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn