Sleep On The Ceiling

You said you’d call when the sky turned clean

But the static came first, and the in-between

I checked every pocket for something to say

But the matches were damp, and the words ran away

The blinds cut the morning into strips of gray

And the cat’s in the window just watching decay

I tried to go out but the air felt fake

Like a song that forgets its own chorus halfway

So I sleep on the ceiling, I don’t touch the floor

There’s nothing below me I haven’t ignored

I hum when I’m nervous, I talk when I lie

I promised I’m fine — I don’t know why

The mirror’s too kind to the version of me

That smiles like a trick and bleeds like a plea

I keep my regrets in a coffee can

With the names I’ve erased from the back of my hand

So I sleep on the ceiling, I float past the lights

Pretending the cracks are just stars out of sight

I tune out the voices, I sharpen the sigh

I promised I’m fine — and I didn’t cry

There’s a song in the carpet, there’s dust in my plans

There’s a hole in the wall where I buried my hands

If silence’s golden, I’m burning for change

But the gold just reflects all the things I won’t name

So I sleep on the ceiling and dream out of tune

With a pocket of pills and a postcard of June

If someone still calls me, I’ll try not to hide

I promise I’m fine —

But I might have lied