It's 2 am in a hotel room,
In a not so foreign place,
With some bafflingly strange toothpaste,
And duck soap which smells like oranges,

And to think
That I would be,

Thinking of you.

"I'm busy," she says
"I have work to do,"
"If I want to see the moon I can find a good picture online."

When is a picture
ever a good substitute
unless the real thing
isn't there?

When this world is no more,
And everything we know is dead and gone,
Will you miss this life?