Hours of the Ghost
This is the time of the walking wounded.
Sheets rip like skin, again and again, opening
their blooms. The seconds stretch to break,
silent hairs caught in a man’s hand.
I wanted morning before I wanted you.
Neither came in time to save me. Everything
broke when the moon flattened against
the palm of your hand. The woods are
covered in white. Fawns traipse spots
across the scape of pillows. Or
the moon. I could be everything to you,
if you’d let me. It’s not a lack of want
on your part. I know your hands are held
by corporeal wisps of worry and promise.
I know that all the words jangle in your bones.
I know that in these hours between
living and dying, the marrow is all we have.
I know, baby. I know.
Image: Taken with iPhone.
Words written while Fringe.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on supernatural creatures, insomnia, sheets.