A cold surface houses a foot and a leg, along with the rest of the body, of course. The eyes stare straight ahead. You would think they blinked occasionally, but you could not tell. Earphones are plugged in and the ceiling fan spins right round, baby.
Right round. The mother clearly has cause for concern.
So I may or may not have lied on the floor for 15 minutes and made my mother v concerned.
And I finally said,
"I want to be a fan.
A ceiling fan to be specific.
I would just be overhead of them
And would keep my duty in spinning,
Until they will be accustomed
of my presence,
*Like it is the air that only existed.
Or they will notice me only
if I am a bit strong
or a bit too weak."
The ceiling fan whirrs its way through the night
At some point the bed sheet becomes unbearably tight
And it's kicked to the bottom
Hot nights endured then quickly forgotten
Tossed and crumpled, kicked to the floor
Wrinkled and creased like a metaphor
And the fan in the ceiling whirring away
Sees too much and has too much to say.
you know what?
I bought a dog.
but it ate me.
— The End —