I Am Fog; I Want to Be Seen

I want to be seen,
to matter,
to carve my existence into the world,
to leave behind echoes so loud
they shatter the silence.

But I am fog —
a soft invasion,
a ghostly drift with no edges,
no boundaries,
no core to grasp.

I spread myself thin,
seeping into cracks,
filling spaces where no one asked me to be.
Hovering on the edge of perception,
a chill you feel
but cannot name.

I ache to be known,
for someone to pierce the mist,
to find the trembling pulse inside the haze.
But when eyes linger,
the fog thickens,
the chill deepens,
and I retreat —
afraid of being too much,
afraid of being nothing at all.

I dissolve under scrutiny,
evaporate when touched.
The closer you get,
the less I exist.
See me,
but don’t trap me.
Know me,
but don’t hold me.

I drift between contradictions —
a wish and a fear,
a presence and an absence,
burning with the need to matter,
choking on the belief that I don’t.

I long to change the world,
but what is fog to the landscape?
What impact does mist leave on mountains?
I settle on everything,
but alter nothing.

I am there,
then gone,
a memory,
that barely lingers.
Lost in my own diffusion,
I search for a shape,
a frame,
a core of me —
but everything slips,
melts,
evaporates.

I hover in the gray,
where light and shadow mix,
where direction fades,
where every step is a guess,
and nothing leads home.

I want to matter,
to step out of the blur,
to scream my presence into the world —
but my voice disperses,
a breath swallowed by the endless void.

I am fog,
wrapped in longing,
cloaked in fear.
Everywhere, yet nowhere,
seen, yet unseen.

Searching, always searching,
for something solid,
something real,
a clearing where I can finally condense
into a self that holds,
into a shape that stays.

But the mist is endless.

And I am lost within it.