The ceiling forgot its job.
The room peeled back,
quietly,
like it didn’t want to be caught doing it.
I slipped through something
that didn’t have an edge.
Maybe it was me.
There were two versions of everything.
One breathing.
One watching it breathe.
I couldn’t tell which one was real.
Sound stopped being sound.
It grew limbs.
It leaned on me.
The rain wasn’t falling.
It was arriving
from all directions at once.
I kept reaching for clarity,
but kept finding
a different word for it.