In place of mouths, fallible taps dripping a silent something. It drops from our lips, between a yawn and one last kiss, only to dive into the bigger silence that fills the room and keeps you from sleeping. The radio obeys your tired fingers and starts playing, just for us, a soundtrack of terrible news. There’s hand slapping and heads rolling, far away, and there’s your eyelids shutting on the day like merciless guillottines. The unemployment rate raises like your chest under my hand under my head, and then goes down again. The tankers sink in seas that quickly black out like the dreams we’re about to forget. And I have this guilt in me,  ’cause everything is fine although everything is wrong, ’cause I can’t keep my eyes open. There’s going to be coffee in the morning.