My sleep was uneasy and some sightless horror chased me into the gray dawn. The morning, hardly distinguished from night, mocked the weariness in my limbs. Born into the gray as a fish below the ambits of light, I struggled upward, hoping to find a point where reach could meet reach.
The cool, damp air crept between my seams pressed dead lips to my flesh. I showered until steam billowed into the hallway, heat grabbed rapaciously by the darkness. Below my red, scalded flesh, was slate, cold and unmoved.
Driving through puddles, a gray wall of clouds caressing the skyline, like a Siren reaching down to stroke a piece of driftwood. She wonders about the acorn that became the tree that became the boat. As I wonder about the thought that became the word that became the virus in your heart.
