It’s 9:48 pm; I can feel the

liquid life aching through my micro-tubes

encompassing my body. I set a pen

on my lap and see it twitch with every

beat that my drum stretched too

tight dares to muster.

It’s 9:54 pm, the telescopes through

which show life, planted above my

mountainous cheeks, spasm to life in a

desperate attempt to avoid succumbing to sleep deprivation.

My telescopes, my windows. The windows through

which heavy drops are seen precipitating, true

window pain.

It’s 10:01 pm; you stay planted beside me.

As if I would ever let you go elsewhere.

I see how you envy the others. They

worship a garish sun, as you wish to do so.

but it’s I who sees how you wilt and

whither, and it’s I who comes bearing

the liquid you so desperately crave. And

it’s I who in this hour would choose

a subject as conceited as myself and a

subject as painstakingly effortless as you.

It’s 10:10 pm, and I’m aching for you to

inhale me and take me in as if

you need me to live.