In the quiet of a dark room, where whispers stick to walls,
I lie beneath the ceiling, where the shadow of my past falls.
Every bump and every texture, a story in relief,
takes me back to that night, the origin of grief.
Up there, he’s grinning, in the grooves above so stark,
while I’m down here spinning, lost within the dark.
I trace the lines in plaster, where his laughter seems to swell,
in the silence of the ceiling, I find my private hell.
Every shadow’s like a fingerprint, each echo a disdain,
that night’s casual breathlessness, the memory, the pain.
As I map the mottled textures, my fingers hope to find
a different ending written, one that’s kinder, less unkind.
But the pattern never alters, it’s the same relentless jest,
each indentation a reminder of a heart pulled from a chest.
He’s embedded in the stucco, like a specter in the grain,
in the hollows of the ceiling, his smirk remains ingrained.
So I lie here, not sleeping, eyes wide in desperate defense,
waiting for a shadow to make sense,
but the ceiling holds its pattern, and I hold onto the night,
trapped beneath the surface where I hide from the light.