Aborted Ceilings

Did I ever recognise you?

Grizzled white paint looming over me. Were you always white? The empty walls dull your impression. We got close; we nearly bonded. You could have been mine, or rather, me yours. I lie staring at you, and my eyes are sucked in. I penetrate you but surface elsewhere, somewhere I belong…maybe. I time travel; I see through you.

Ceilings from the past that knew that me. The empty walls sustain, however. The absence of personality bitters my vision. Withdraws from a handshake, the ceiling is my abortion- what could have been. I cannot stop staring at you. Smoothie stains, the solemn illumination of your touch. I lie but do not lay when I see you. When my eyes close, you dissolve but are not replaced. Can you be replaced? What were you to me? Who will now loom? Where is my sigil? 

Still staring, hoping for a miracle, some unexplainable change in my circumstance. Flip the camera and see a smiling man, a wall covered in plaques, and a complete calendar. Quotes you pretend to like yet fail to successfully recite. This place will never be a part of me. It just does not have the grit; you are not entwined in bloody history. You are fresh and clean with a contained effervescence. Alive to many but cathartically catatonic to me. Perhaps, love can only form in the presence of pain. Content lives produce a forgettable yield. Grass dribbled with ejaculate being stomped on by actual vitality. 

You are not glass but ice. You do not smash, but you crack, and you melt. The pressure of expectation begs you to collapse, an expectation I fear and revolt against; I am still its victim. A home lacking profit, jewels with fleeting sparkle. You are not the one; you’re too robust, too steady. You’re heavy, and I am forever tired. 

Begrudgingly, I am still on the fruitless hunt for diamonds. As George Carlin said, “Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.” 

I am waiting to be wrong.

Cheers