Fog-Cold and Distant

The trees do not speak anymore.

Their branches once stretched toward me,

fingers of brittle bone scratching the sky,

but now they are just silhouettes,

blurred by the fog that seeps into everything.

The energy here is hollow.

Not empty—no, empty would be too kind.

It is the echo of something that once was,

something that tried to reach me

but forgot my name before it arrived.

I step forward.

The frost does not bite,

the wind does not whisper.

Everything is muted, muffled,

as if the world has decided

I am no longer worth the effort.

A low light trembles in the distance,

not warm, not welcoming—

just there, persistent,

like a mistake the night refuses to correct.

I used to think light meant something.

That it stood for hope, or warmth,

or at least direction.

Now, I see it for what it is—

a flickering thing,

as indifferent as the cold.

The fog curls around my ankles,

pressing against my skin

like a lover with no pulse.

I let it,

because I do not care enough to move.

There was a time I wanted to feel,

wanted the bite of the wind,

the burn of the cold,

the sharp shock of breath

when you step from shadow into light.

But now?

Now, I walk because I must.

Because stopping would be a choice,

and I no longer have the energy

for choices.

The trees do not speak anymore.

And neither do I.