When the Fog Rolls In.
The fog rolls in, slow at first,
a name misplaced, a thought reversed.
Keys forgotten, stories blurred,
sentences trailing, half-heard words.
Then thicker still, it twists, distorts,
stealing meaning, breaking thoughts.
Rooms feel foreign, time unwinds,
the past and present misaligned.
The kettle boils, the stove burns hot,
but dinner’s plans are long forgot.
Smoke curls softly in the air,
you stare as if it wasn’t there.
You ask me who I am today,
as if the years have slipped away.
I see the struggle in your eyes,
the fleeting flicker of surprise.
Some days, the light shines clear and bright—
your laughter warm, your grip still tight.
You tell our story, bold and true,
of love once whispered, now in view.
But then the fog returns once more,
a tide that pulls you from the shore.
The mirror shows a stranger’s face,
familiar things seem out of place.
Still, love is something fog can't hide,
it lingers strong, it stays inside.
And though the mist may veil your mind,
your heart still reaches, warm and kind.
So I will stand through dark and grey,
a steady light to guide your way.
And when the fog takes all it can,
I'll still be here—I'll hold your hand.
