Morning mist

At the waking up time, morning mist turns every edge, every silhouette into a mystery. It’s not day as night hasn’t gone yet. It’s a dirty light blue and grey whiteness. These are the few seconds when I can’t say my own name because I’m still emerging from that uncertain cloud. My soul, wandering through my body and my forms still surrounds me, unable to decide whether to become real or keep unknown, unnoticed.

A moment later mist has dissolved slowly into dew, into tears falling. You had been gazing at me all this time. I know you got hurt, you could not understand my empty look crossing the window glass.

I recall now your pain, your leaving the bed. I would have preferred to take you to the station and express in the goodbye everything I hadn’t said with a caress or a kiss before. But that morning I couldn’t find you in the mist. Your sharp figure, such a sweet shape, hid from me on purpose, taking a cruel advantage of my confusion. Lastly, you left as the sun rose.

Since that day I have never got up again at dawn, afraid of alienation and chaos caused by the morning mist.

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