We float along the surface.

At home I mount shit in the walls, rip out electrical wires. Take the big heavy things that are hard to move and throw them away. 

I nest my body into a bed, surround it with warm water. I submerge myself in sleep. What else can I sink into? Or what could soak through me to where I feel it?

It's been years of not being wanted, not being touched. Of being grazed along edges, two masks joining together in a parody of a kiss: no breath, tongue, or taste. No intermixed sweat either, or tears even. This dryness dehydrates me. My body shrivels, and my heart's brittle too.

Half of two empty husks, waiting to die side-by-side, a pillow between them in bed. Nothing alive left in them that's capable of rot.

I ask you to leave, and you become more transparent, less demanding, as though fading away is the solution and not the problem. You're a ghost that haunts me, locking me away from the sins and redemptions of the flesh. I'm wasting away like this, too much like you.

I don't know how many more ways I can say it. This is not what I want. You are not who I want. 

We are drifting anyway, let it be definitive. And apart.