Satellites

7:58 AM

As I open my eyes

every single morning

I glue my eyes to the ceiling

wishing it was the sky instead,

hoping I could catch a glimpse

of the moon fading into the light

before the sun begins its shift 

for the day

I wonder if out there—

right above the planet,

where atmosphere no longer exists;

I wonder if the satellites

are looking down on earth

the way I look up at them

free to float in nothingness,

a speck of metal out in the galaxy

As I open my eyes

every single morning

I wish that I could float too;

I wish that I could see the sky;

I wish that I don’t have to be in this bed;

but rather better,

if I died.