This bed is a ship

This bed is a ship is a sporadically updated internet journal, 
a home for odd scraps of writing.

I dreamt you came to me. I dreamt with my eyes open and the sun slinking in the window. I should put up curtains.

Your head hit the ceiling fan, even with my mattress on the floor. Your dead grinning made me squirm. I was dressed all in black, but mourning fabric stops no sin. Clothes mean nothing to a ghost. 

My hands shook as I held you. The air gained weight and lay upon me. A ghost is more tender than a dream. Your fingertips were cold on my neck, and space would bend and break. You filled the room. You filled my heart. You were the size of a bead of sweat. The pounding in your chest was the sound of the highway. A bird down the street was your breath. Your eyes, your eyes. A glass of water shaking on the sill.

I will not call your name into the day. Your name is dead, it died with you. I will bite the lip of memory, and some little piece of you will live in me. 

Sid Branca