Sunken.

This sky is grey,

she's the moon.

I don't believe in ghosts

But then why do I still feel you?

Morning sun,

she was the moon.

Noon hurts,

I ache across every inch

that this bed touches.

The lack of you

becomes a force

from each wall

against me.

If I stood

now,

my bones would crumble,

my tendons would stretch

‎and my body

‎would slowly, inelegantly,

Fumble, ‎tumble to the floor.

I will not sink now.

I will float,

soaked,

build a boat

                      and write a fable.