the fog clings like a forgotten script

the air here smells of rust and old promise, a scent that clings like a half-remembered lens flare. i’ve seen worse in cities that don’t care about their own history, barefoot and weightless. the sidewalks here aren’t really sidewalks anymore; they’re ribcages scraped by ghosts who’ve tried to escape their own courses. when i passed the bakery, the ice pockets were colder than a slab of someone’s shattered mirror, and the baker just sighed, didn’t shrug off the regret like a man surfing waves with no swell in his chest. sometimes the place feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to remember what its own weight means. it’s not happy, not really happy, just perpetually on the fringes of being anything less than a joke. i keep walking because maybe that’s enough-because nothing changes unless you push too hard without seeing the cracks first.

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