We lie straight as pins in our graves.

Drifting through nights without life,
Listening to the sounds of other people's silence.

Does your gray empty reverberate the same as mine?
Does the ticking of the clock and the hum of a dimly lit lamp echo through your mind?

In the night I hear your soundless lonesome.  
I am a collector of fatigued expressions and once inhabited places.

We all lie as straight as pins in our graves, drifting through.