The Ceiling (not slang)

Inspiration lies stagnant, like a mist slashed by sunrays on a dense forest floor
My mind meanders throughout it
Scowering the ground as if for lost treasure;
But new ideal or philosophy
Is what I grasp to discover.

Reaching farther, I only touch the ceiling, which draws ever closer towards me.
I find myself lying here, here on the floor,
Where I find myself time and again,
And every now and then, I forget how I ended up here-
But the next morning I usually remember.

Blackness covers most of my sight, although I lie with eyes wide open
And try to focus upon every outline and intricacy there is to be seen
My drunken mind lapses over races of easeful thought,
Again, reaching for the stars when there lays above me a ceiling.
I imagine them above my fragile body, thin frame strewn over cold marble
And blink some tears from my eyes; not tears of emotion,
Because of that I’m devoid, but tears of mental effort and philosophical capitalism.

I feel your strong hands grab hold of mine and pull me slightly upward.
I get to my feet as your stare catches my glazed blue eyes,
Lost in them, pushing a drink into my hand and watching me toss it back.
I hear the tap of the shot glass as I apparently place it on the counter,
But I’m not paying much attention, my mind still feebly grasping sobriety,
Trying not to lose control, although it would seem as I already have.
I hold tight to the moment, sift every second that goes by in a rush of thought.

Your fingers brush the streaks of tears from the side of my face.
One of your hands pulls me into your body while the other pulls my hair back,
You press your lips to my ear and ask if I’m alright, to which no reply is necessary,
I just pull you closer and latch onto your familiar scent, surrendering.

Later on, I awake once more, cold and mutable; again, the sensation of cold marble is etched into my body, throbbing through it.
My head pounds as my eyes lazily groom the room, corner to corner, refamiliarizing myself with the ceiling of the night before.
I recall the reminisce, slowly drawing everything to a conclusion.
I begin to push myself up, stiffly, and skim the damage from last night’s escapades,
I pull the strap of my tank top back onto my shoulder and gather my hair behind my back,
Running my fingers through its tangles and blinking away salted, heavy sleep.

I sit on a bar stool at your kitchen counter.
I hear nothing, as you enter the room and wrap your arms around me, kissing my neck.
You speak, but I don’t listen. I say nothing, and nod.
You rub your warm hands over my body, but I still feel cold and isolated.
Trapped within the depths of my own mind.

And the next day it will be the same.
I’ll have forever to fight my own confines. Unaltered by anything or anyone around me.

I seek what’s beyond the ceililing.