Find Me

I'm tired, I turn away from a flashing yellow sun, pulling myself down low in a blanket of down. Over my eyes, in a blank cocoon of sleep. My hair has grown long and winds around my neck. I wake again and again. The night and day seem to bleed together, I'm no longer sure when I dream of you and when longing for you seeps from my pores, soaks the bed. My voice has grown rasping and I taste metal. I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm tired. I want only clean linen and silence. Though it hasn't happened yet, I've heard it should start to fade, I should no longer wake in a small salty sea. Last night, or the night before, my heart fluttering like a wild bird, I breathed your name in and out, the shallow shudder tearing away at my throat. I curl down deep, a nautilus without a shell. I'd bury myself here and let dust and sorrow bury me until I could only be unearthed as an archaeological find.

Find me. Find me, please.