Falling Up

ceilings

Some nights I'll sit up and stare at the celing trying to pick out patterns in the paint.

I gaze at the white as if it holds the answers I'm looking for and more.

But it doesn't. It cannot speak and it cannot comfort me when I stare. I beg and I plead for it to respond, for it to tell me how to fix what I've lost. But it is nothing but a celing. It's plaster who does not have a mouth or soul or life.

It cannot tell me what I did wrong. It cannot tell me how to correct it.

It cannot tell me how to deal with this..

So when I stare up at the patterns of paint, I pray that it'll form a shape or a response. But it does not.

For it is a ceiling.