Life of the Egg

I sleep through chicken soup
with noodles entangling my legs,
odd pieces of vegetable and meat.
This is not an empty night.

But I am also missing,
time rushed by without a signal.
The missing part of the night is deeper,
more like the truth.

Until I open my eyes,
I am alone here
down in my void, with pockets
of chicken soup.

I can live by myself
during the times
I count as living,
when I am saturated with yolk.