Ghost. Not dead.
Take off your sleep, despite…
Tell me a story

OK, take off his death
OK, he’s asleep
OK, he tells me

Sit up against old pain,
…despite sleep
…despite ghosting

There is a story…
I can see his sex
He’s (not) inevitable
I compute no difference between living and shame

He’s fallen asleep, still unable to fly.
Fill my chest with thin air, despite…
Tell me

Sit huddled around our pain,
…why start coming home
…our way isn’t this

There is a story in a magazine…
He begins a sentence with his face
He ends it with his sweat
Letting the details run across his legs

Breathe in your belly out of the moment
You’re curious about what I feel?
Nothing.

He wanted to tell it…
When I peer out of my chest
Breathe against me
Let go of numbness
Want sensation

Breathe out the window
What I would miss if he wanted to?
Something.

A story?
I would say it was already written
Feelings? You must be joking.

He keeps rising, “are you ready?”
I rest in the mucous of my past
Contracting my throat, dripping into my eyes

OK, I’ve never slept
OK, I try to
OK, I worry

I fear that I don’t have any more deadness

Let go of the details in your legs!
I feel nothing, except your curiosity about the conduit of my knee
(which has been injured)
(which is penetrable)
He compresses himself into a story

I will remember it
Sweetness is integration
Possible is visible
The fall is exploration
See me, it’s OK

It’s OK, I was asleep
It’s OK that he wonders what comes with affection
It’s OK to look away