Fog

As I stand on the roof of the Church and take in the early morning, a sadness silently spreads over me. The fog is beginning to lift, but at this moment in time is still creates a hazy barrier between me and the rest of the world. Between me and you, wherever you happen to be. The morning is quiet, with even the birds still resting peacefully in their nests. The streetlights still cast a dull glow which rebounds off the blanket of fog and bounces in every direction. I used to wake up early like this so I could wait for you, but you no longer come.

I remember that day you made the decision to not help the Church anymore. Instantly memories began to overflow my mind, overwhelming any existence of sensibility. We had been in this Church together for four years, and the separation back then was almost too much for me to bear. I holed myself up and made every attempt to hide my existence from others. But now, on every Sunday morning, I walk up to the roof of our Church. I allow the memories to swim around in my mind, and I feel them slowly drowning my composure. I feel myself on the verge of a breakdown every time thoughts of you enter my mind. It is because I know that you are still out there somewhere, but not here. It is because I know you will never be back at the Church with me again.

When I first came to Italy to visit you we were friends, and I still cannot discern where that exactly changed. Perhaps we were both left with no other avenue to display our affections. We were both still children when we began to have feelings. Perhaps both of us were confused, but since we had no other choice but to be together, we gradually worked things out. The wonderful thing about Italy is that the romance simply springs forth with little or no effort. All either of us had to do was simply exist, and let the atmosphere do all the work. I thought that we could stay there forever, but I still have the letter you wrote to me from that day.

You left it for me to find early in the morning, when you had already gone and left. You said you needed time to work things out, but didn't say what. Maybe it was something I had done, or maybe it was something I said. I can't help but regret whatever it is I did or did not do. If there were words to take back I would take them, and if there was something to apologize for I would, but you left me completely clueless and void. That's why I still return to the Church every Sunday, and sometimes every day of the week. On that roof is where we first confessed our love, and the sky had the same kind of fog that comes with every early morning. Every day of my life I wonder why you had to go, and where you went. If I thought that you wanted me to find you I would go looking, but I simply do not know if that is the case.

All I can manage to do now is sit on this roof, amidst the encompassing fog and dim streetlights, and attempt to recall memories of a time when my life was perfect. Letting go of them would be a betrayal of all that I felt towards you, so I protect them with everything I have. Finally a gentle breeze comes and softly caresses my face. It occurs every time I come up to the Church, and I take it as my cue to leave. Although my memories may have just driven me to a point of delusion, I like to think that you are sending the breeze. I like to imagine that it smells just like your favorite perfume, and on some days, I think that it does.