Ceiling

I feel drunk in my body, but my mind is pin-point sharp, regrettably. Perhaps that is how I know I miss you. When my body is heavy, and lazy and unable to move, but my mind is ever moving. Ever changing. Ever missing you.

I think I’m getting to know my ceiling strangely well. More than I knew you, even. I see it far more often.

It’s white— but pale blue beneath my lights. My throat hurts swallowing and staring at it so much, but forcing my head away hurts. Not worse than the emotion welling within me. Do I say if? It doesn’t much matter. It will never matter.

My feet are crossed. Imagination filled with picket fences and a kind neighbourhood. My heart hurts. Do you even think of me?

You’re cruel in how beautiful you are. Your voice is a siren’s song, your looks that of a Greek goddess. But I’m not sure you see me as anything more than I am. Nothing ethereal; or for paintings nor stories. My skin smells like regret and exhaustion. But how do I sleep when I am swathed in discomfort? I should be used to it. When am I ever bathe in something soft, something so intense it’s suffocating in its own right but not drowning?

Oh, love.

How I would love to stop thinking.

I suppose I shall stare, drunk and babbling like a good for nothing fool.