You pull up to my chest in a curve
Your ears press up against my heart
I stare at the ceiling
And there is that moment hanging
Stapled like a party decoration
From when it was first created
The patterns in the paint
The memories in every line of the design
Your hand moves to my face
My eyes follow patched up holes where
The structure has been tested
I shift on the floor, she shifts the same
Do ceilings worry about floods?
Or are they more concerned with hammers and nails?
Their neighbors warned them about those types…
What has the ceiling witnessed that the walls have not?
What has the floor understood that the ceiling did not already know?
What has it absorbed from the way our eyes follow the clothes it wears?
I lean my chin down to press you closer and breathe in.
We both reach up and tack another memory to a string and let it
Hang there until the next time we decide to needlessly question interior design.