staring at the knots in the ceiling
transport to another place
another time
with her
I wish she was here
to hold
all this technology still isn’t her voice
her eyes
the ceiling has a grain to it
a chaotic pattern of peace
it used to be a tree
a soul
it makes me sad
with all this flickering firelight
she should be here too
it would heal her
she’s going to explode
but don’t worry, it won’t make a mess
because she’ll just disappear
some things just aren’t real
wait
because it’s time now
I want her here!
she can’t stay any longer in that pink house
I made the bedroom up for her
but she’s not here anyway
I made a mask and hung it on the wall
just in case
what a waste of those pretty black pajamas
that I never wear anyway
staring at the knots in the ceiling
the hand on the hammer up there
I made myself a beautiful nest
for her to heal in
what a waste
Perhaps at one point in history we mess up, and perhaps at one point in history we do something right, and then perhaps history never was, and is like a ceiling, up there, almost out of reach except by the most extreme measures possible. Perhaps one day we will know when the ceiling falls upon us…If it’s still there…