Every morning you wipe the froth from the edge of your mouth.
It does not risk your life or hinder your next move,
nor does it ask forgiveness or for money.
Weightless and invisible it only exists in mirrors.
A minor dryness that pulls ever so slightly;
that tastes minutely sticky, that rests without burden.
Yet you wipe it away each day.
Raising your arm, dividing your pointer and thumb,
bringing it all to your face, perfectly placed,
you wipe the edge of your mouth.
Then maybe scratch your nose, push up your glasses,
wipe the dust from your eyes;
During the night did you remember to:
make your dreams lucid or
talk with the universe or
raise your chin to the stars?
Did you look out over billions of years of existence,
upon an infinite star-scape,
exploring infinite possibilities
using all the time and space ever made;
filling it with more, expanding exponentially to
its unlimited potential, colliding galaxies and
eating matter, spitting light, launching energy
and fulfilling destiny and wonder
if you waste precious seconds on trivial nuances.