Sleep-coma.

The air is thick with smoke and your heavy breathing.
I'm awake, but still not quite, and the ticking of your clock is the only sound rhythmifying my existence this morning.
It's been light outside
for what seems like years,
but units of time are useless.

Why not measure "time" in states of mind,
or physical states of being?

Right now, it's hunger and weakness;
later it'll be fatigue and in some time,
satisfaction and content.
I live for fleeting moments, praying for something lasting.

My back hurts this morning.
I feel off this morning.
I'm alive this morning.