Embers in the Sun

I sink into my bed; nothing holds— a patient etherised upon the mattress, spilled from my skull into darkness. Language leaks from the sockets. The abyss chews without sound.

The ceiling hangs where the sky should be, its beams black with old smoke. Fingers trace a seam that isn’t there— the stitch between body and ghost, between waking and whatever redeems.

I am the anchor and the stone, swallowing echoes. The hush of the tide, the pull of the deep— names rot in my teeth.

A pause between pulses, a breath that stutters, folded in absence. The weight is a lullaby sung by machines in a ward of the sleepless. Even silence has wires here.

In this space between drowning and dream I find no comfort, only the falling. Between breath and surrender, between weight and release—

I sink.

I sink and sink until darkness comes, the only language my soul remembers, not light but the smell of scorched feathers. Nothing holds me in this endless sum. I am embers in the sun.