I like walking in the fog.
I like the cold.
I love being damp,
Because wet’s taken wrong,
Wrong’s ‘round the corner,
But one or two more steps,
And inches nigh, disfigured.

When the sun burns through,
And it does,
I feel like I’m on fire,
But happy with being bright,
Being light. “Light” being –
It’s been awhile
Since I’ve seen the sun.

So I fall in love with the sunrise,
The light and not the stranger.
“It’s the real deal,” I mumble,
But funny enough,
I miss the fog over time,
And the stranger even more,
And slightly later.