Fog, a poem

Those mornings we watched the fresh fog roll over
and into the lazy Bay below in between sleeping and waking.
Like songs we never had the chance to sing,
like songs couldn’t remember,
like songs we never learned,
we slid along in traffic, mirrored on either side.

I wondered those days what life would have been like,
I wondered some nights what life would have been like
if the mist one day chose not to lift.

*

We said goodbye to wonder
and hello
through a looking glass
to new illusions -
our new home game.

We watched the later fade faster and faster and faster
than the tears we always struggled to hold on those long car rides.
The fallout of being mixed up, maxed out, and
unable to take our eyes off a horizon
all tied up in heavenly, smoke-stained knots.

*

Then, these moments were gone,
the fog dissipated as
the sky opened to a world who was waiting for us;
the beginning of our old day’s end.

Yet still, on those nights where the stars look more
like headlights than our first home's porch light,
I wish, at least, to see the fog roll over and in -
to take me back to a place where I was

too light to hate, too heavy to love.

Shattering, shining, and lying to ourselves -
like all our gods before us,
making believe
once again.