The sun went down,
but I'm still here.
There's still a tube inside me.
My dinner tray is in the sink.
The whiteboard says my name.
The thermostat reads "55"--
that's something
I can choose.
But
my best friend died
right down the hall
wrapped up in sheets
like mine.
I want to leave,
but I cannot.
The moon
can't take my place.
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