I look up at the ceiling for the tenth time this week, my new morning ritual.
I wake up and look at the popcorn ceiling and I think about you, all the things I would undo.
I think about all the things I said that I’d take back, shove back into my mouth.
If words were real physical things I would have burned them.
Wouldn’t that be nice, if everything we said came out in black letters and were put in volumes and we could just rip out the pages we didn’t like.
I take it back, I take it all back.
I have conversations with myself as I count the places the sun hits in the morning and the pockets of darkness at night.
It’s never all the way dark here with the city lights. I wish I wish I wish, but wishing is for nothing, and I can’t undo.
So instead I sit and look at the ceiling, and dream about all the things I wouldn’t say to you.