It comes every so often between
the hours of two and four.

They are usually filled with fog, but
this one is clear.
Its transparency resembles that of
the deepest part of the sky.

It is here where he stares at me.
His smile radiates every corner of the small sky, and
he sits there, curious, filled with anticipation.

It crumbles.
It begins to fall apart, and just like the
cracks in our skin,
It won't be mended.

In the end, the fog always returns, but I
can still catch his smile.
I can still feel his hair,
ruffling with the non-existent wind
and it's only here where he always
decides to stay.