Awake

The bubbles in my undrunk night-water
look like a galaxy of stars
backlit by my alarm clock.
Fuck, you're eloquent at 1am Rachel,
I think,
as I compose a hundred perfect tweets
that would definitely go viral
if they ever made it to my feed.
My brain writes whole scenes
for my book that will probably
never be written.
2.08. I have a thousand conversations
saying everything I need to say
and picture whole scenarios in
cinematic perfection.
I lie awake, rigid with trying to relax.
Eyes sting, limbs are restless.
2.53. Secret wishes are fulfilled
just for me:
they'll fade by morning.
The galaxy of bubbles multiplies,
backlit by the glow of 3 

and eventually 4am.