THE WRITING ON THE CEILING.

Lying here on the cold floor staring at the ceiling. It’s so blank. As blank as your face these days. I used to know so much from your face. I knew exactly what you were feeling by looking into your eyes. Those beautiful eyes told me so much. Now all I see is darkness.

And distance.

You are so far away these days. Where are you when I’m talking to you? I wish you’d take me with you. Perhaps that’s why I’m so lonely now even with you near me. Because you left me here and went wherever it was you went.

Perhaps that’s why I’m lying here on this cold floor. 

As cold as you. As cold as your touch and your stare these days. Your stare used to warm me,unwind me in the most beautiful way. Now it leaves me stripped,bare,naked,self-concious. Like you are judging me with those eyes,your beautiful eyes. Comparing me to someone else. 

Someone better than me?

Is it the one you’re with in your head when you’re with me? The one you share your fantasy land with? Your body is with me but your soul is there.

I wish this blank ceiling would speak to me. Give me answers,some sort of ‘writing on the ceiling’ but I doubt that’s forthcoming. Even the fly that was hanging there just left. Now I’m totally alone. I’ll have to find the answers myself…..

TheQueerPoet.

xoxoxo.

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