Morgan Fu-Mueller

Darling, I'm a ghost ship. You can't sail me.
 
No good intention could make the wind fill my tattered sails. There will never be enough breathing room.
 
I cannot rock you to sleep. My hull glides along the water ephemeral and limping. I can hardly carry myself. I would drag you along in my wake, beloved, weighed down with cold seafoam and wailing.
 
Darling, I don't hold water. Or, perhaps, I hold too much. I collapse, concertina, under my own weight. I cannot bear myself.
 
If you called, I could meet you by the pier. You could tiptoe up my unsteady gangplank, and we could drift directionless through the wine-dark surf. I could bring you back to shore by morning.
 
But Darling, I might not.
 
What I want is not for you to sink or swim. I want you here with me, in the belly of the beast, for as long as you can swallow.
 
Darling, I won't carry you. You can't carry me.