My Life In Word

Where the Fog Keeps Your Name

The cabin waits
where the hill surrenders
to the hands of mist,
its weathered walls
still holding the breath
of forgotten winters.

The trees stand like old mourners,
their black limbs
lifted toward a heaven
that no longer answers.
Even the wind
moves softly here,
as though afraid
to wake the dead.

I found you
on a morning
the world had hidden itself.
The fog wrapped around your shoulders
like a bridal veil,
and your smile
was the only warm thing
the valley remembered.

We loved
as abandoned places love—
without witnesses,
without promises
the world could understand.
Our hearts became candles
burning in a house
already claimed by shadows.

But time is faithful
only to endings.

Now I climb this lonely path
where moss swallows footprints
and silence grows
between the roots.
The door hangs open
just enough
to suggest
someone has only just left.

Sometimes I imagine
you still waiting inside,
your hands resting
upon the windowsill,
watching the fog
erase my outline
before I reach you.

Sometimes I hear
your laughter
woven into the branches,
so soft
I mistake it
for rain.

The mist never tells me
whether you died,
or simply became
part of the mountain.

So I return
whenever dawn forgets
to become day,
bringing flowers
that bloom only in memory,
speaking your name
into the gray silence
until it echoes back
like a vow
spoken inside
an empty chapel.

If love survives anywhere,
it is here—

in forgotten cabins,
in ancient trees,
in the cold breath of morning,

where every ghost
is only someone
who loved too deeply
to leave.

Simona A. Brinson


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