Nighttime and I find myself in a morgue
the kind where dead people breathe
wake up and leave for work, stay attentive, live inside a machine, stare glass eyed at emails, eat packed lunch and go to the gym, who come back and die again; exhaling steadily in a rhythm of crest and falls that rhyme with irksome snores.
Nighttime and I hunt for galaxies in a ceiling
Following the lights glowing a silent part of my room
from a passing car that doesn't realise
It's trespassing my house, with amber coin sized gleam refracting from another life
that near imitates stars, the only kinds I get to see
in a morgue where dead people breathe.
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