Thick

I woke with the moon

The morning thick in fog and exhaustion

A swelling sleeping underneath my heart,

and pressing against my spine

I can only imagine the feeling looking the way a forest does;

when the cold October clasps woodland on wet, soulful mornings in her fingers,

a balloon of smog knitting braids around forlorn trunks, tattered leaves, morose branches

A dense thicket of somber trees grown to absorb the blood leaking from the space

so absent, so vacant in between my leafy organs.