The orchid is flowering
Opening,
a living mandala
Next to my bed
I hear it in my dreams
It's telling me very strange things
About the chemistry between us
And what being a flower really is
And what it really means.

There's a lot to learn.

The orchid whispers in chemical symbols

I danced through the night one night
I drank water in the desert
The sweetest taste, I've ever known
I heard a sound I've never heard before
The buzzing of Chi
Blowing in
while the curtains fluttered
In the night time wind.

Our time I know is limited
Forever wilts away

But while the orchid is flowering
That's for another day

I find myself longing for the scent of the night and at least
One more dream to go.

There's popcorn on the ceiling,
a million bajillion clusters that I've spent days trying to count.
In the 1950's these ceilings exploded into popularity.
And until 1977, homeowners blasted asbestos covered popcorn toward the sky, letting mesothelioma fibers fall back to their floor like it was harmless dust.
I take a deep breath, letting the air settle deep in my chest before letting it back out.
My ceiling is probably not made of asbestos.
It's probably styrofoam or some other cheap, paper-based product.
I take another deep breath.
The EPA banned the use of asbestos in these ceilings.
Apparently, inhaled in large quantities, asbestos causes lung disease, lung scarring, and lung cancer.
Another deep, deep breath.
I continue counting the probably not cancer causing popcorn.
I wonder if I would be able to feel the particles swimming in my lungs like fiber glass–thin, delicate, sharp.
I wonder if it would **** me.
I wonder if my family would file a claim like you see on those old commercials screaming,
"If you or a loved one developed mesothelioma you, yes you, could be entitled to compensation."
Or, something like that.
Breathe.
The air tastes funny.
My ceiling is most likely not made of asbestos.
But, I probably wouldn't care if it was.