The box that became my Universe

The cold grows
like mold
off the single pane window.
There’s fermentation
in the air,
and I’m shivering to it.

Heat death
is what some people call the end of the world.

The glowing globe in the sky
makes this place seem bigger than it really is.
But when the light goes out,
I share the emptiness with shadow.
And this Universe is full of empty.

Below me,
the fallen stars lay still
like corpses;
their blood-thick warmth
cooling;
drained and devoured,
as the spores of thin air
grow off their carcasses.

Above me,
some stars retain their place in heaven,
calling my dreams to them,
like Sirens.
The space between my mind
and the ceiling of the sky,
a graveyard.

Every night,
I witness the end of the world.
Every night,
the Universe decomposes
into darkness
before me.

I am a shadow
of a corpse
frozen
in vacuum.