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The ceiling blinked first, it told me I was looking up too much
The ceiling blinked first—it told me I was looking up too much,
time laughed in a corner, counting backwards just to mock me,
my shadow packed its bags and left a sticky note:
"You're thinking too hard. I need air."
The fan above spun secrets, whispering in Morse code,
I'm not sure if it cursed me or told me the meaning of life,
(too lazy to translate), I sipped gravity like tea,
watched ants reinvent capitalism on the edge of the desk,
and somewhere, in a parallel kitchen, my slice of toast is still falling,
but never touches the floor, floating between unknown dimensions,
while my thoughts dance among the dust threads of the universe,
seeking answers to unspoken questions, in the silence of a ceiling with thoughts.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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