tonight,
my pleading eyes
are sucked into the consistent,
circular motion of a dusty ceiling fan.
no sleep,
no thoughts,
just me,
and white noise.
i am drawn to the distinctive rattle,
it's unusual hum,
the consistent effort.
i begin counting the laps; pivoting my eyes
onto one particular blade.
and, with unceasing calmness, i drift into space.
between my fan and the ceiling,
i find stars.
i begin to see parts of his face
in every speck of distant light;
but within every void,
i lose my breath.
it is like
being tossed between
peculiar rotations, and perpetual death
and i cannot escape.
YOU ARE READING
Fellchaser
PoetryFellchaser /fehl-ch-acer/ A long-forgotten or suppressed event from your past that could reappear at any time and rip your life apart; that every day, you carry its burden unable to explain it out of fear, regret, or shame - leaving you to wonder if...
