Brad and Caleigh

Sometimes I think there are ghosts in my room.

My intestines and organs all stacked in my body,
they flip through me like playing cards;
my heart sits on top like an olive.

You can only hear them when they cup their hands over your ears.

They sit across my hips,
lean down over me,
rolling pin the air from my lungs,
squished tight like a sleeping bag.

I lay still.
Cold and invisible, maybe they just want to lie against someone.
Half asleep, they feel like waning tides.