I am falling now,
and there is no one here to save me.
My hands are bloodied and torn,
but still find nothing to hold on to.
Ghostly fingers rub my shoulders,
phantom arms embrace me.
The yearning has become so stark,
that it fades no longer.
It remains at the forefront,
as does my worries,
compounding the problem.
If I could feel that phantom in truth,
safe would I feel, protected, loved.
If the ghost would touch me in this world,
I could relax, feel cared for.
But they remain ever so,
haunting me, teasing me,
reminding me that I still tumble down
this immeasurable mountain of reality,
that I still reach out endlessly
for that hand to catch my fall.
© Johanna Fugitt 2017