The night’s darkness is as familiar to me as the day.
I have conversation with a different star every night.
Each a friend but not as dear as the me I leave behind every night.

His eyes brown, and hair of black, like me only longer and unkempt
His nose, ears, his limbs, could well have been mine.
His skin whiter then mine, it had never seen the sun.
We are just an extended repetition of ourselves.

He lives in a white wooden coffin with engravings on the side.
And red velvet pillow made from the softest of cotton.
Dressed in finest white, resting his head on an emerald pillow.
He never leaves. He has been here for the past 15 years.

He was strong and always wore a wide-toothed ready smile.
I have seen that change, he is now but my corpse.
Brittle bones held together with the thinnest, wrinkled skin like the one shed by the snake in the shed.
I nourished him only on my pains and sorrow in the conversations of the sleepless, endless nights.

Tonight I smell that distinct stench that fills your senses only to never leave.
That unmistakable smell of death and rot.
He does not even need to breathe to live his death now.
We look into each others eyes, saying nothing. Knowing the time is here.

I decide to dress him up and. make him pretty for his final journey.
I cut his hair, and shave his beard.
We are just an extended repetition of ourselves.
I see him and wonder – Is he me or is he the reflection I see in the mirror?
I see him and wonder – Is he dying or is the corpse but me?