I’ve been burning bridges
inside my own mind—
not the ones that lead to people,
but the ones that lead back
to who I was with them.
Setting fire to moments
I used to walk across
like they meant something.
Laughter goes first—
it’s the easiest to doubt.
Then the soft parts,
the almosts,
the things I held onto
because they felt real enough
to keep.
I tell myself
it’s necessary.
That if I leave those paths standing,
I’ll keep wandering back,
keep looking for something
that isn’t there anymore.
So I light the match.
Watch memories catch
quicker than I expect.
Turns out
it doesn’t take much
to turn a past into smoke.
But the strange thing is—
even when the bridge is gone,
even when the fire settles
and everything falls quiet—
I still remember
what it felt like
to cross it.
The shape of it.
The way it held my weight.
The way it led somewhere
I thought I’d stay.
And maybe that’s the truth
no one tells you—
you can burn every path
that leads backward,
but you can’t erase
the fact
that you were once there,
standing in the middle
of something
you believed in.
Through the Fog 