The Ceiling Fan Told Me You’re Not Coming Back
Imaginary Artist

The ceiling fan told me you’re not coming back
Dust dances in the dying light, sparking memories
Of laughter brushed against the walls, bittersweet whispers
We traced constellations on the ceiling, pink and blue
A tapestry of yesterdays, now frayed—
Your smile flickering like a candle in the wind

Runaway mornings and quiet shadows, just echoes
The kitchen where we brewed dreams, now a ghost town
Empty plates lingering in corners, shapes of regret
You always liked the way the sunlight hit the table
But there’s no sun here, just darkness creeping,

Each tick of the clock pulling at my heart
A murmured promise suffocating my silence.
Packing up the scent of your perfume tucked in a box,
Reality blurs—where did I go? The horizon beckoned
With promises of new beginnings, yet here I am, stuck,

In a loop of ‘What if’—like a vinyl skipping
Your laughter stitching seams in the air I breathe,
I wander through echoes, tripping over our memories,
The ceiling fan spinning tales of the wishing we did,
The uncertain twilight of steps I didn’t take—

Fleeting glances at pictures retracing our steps,
The world kept moving while I was held in place,
But the ground beneath me feels heavier each day,
My heartbeat, a lament for decisions long past—
I tap my fingers against the empty chair by the window,

And the shadows sigh, reminding me I went away,
Yet something in me remains, tangled in your absence,
Whispers of a love still floating between worlds,
And I wonder, would you smile if I turned back?
Or has the ceiling fan spun too far into the night?

I stand by the door, but the frame feels too small,
My shadow holds the weight of what it couldn’t hold—
In the quiet aftermath of silence, I’m lost
A poet in a landscape of forlorn dreams,
I search for your face among the stars, fractured,
In a universe that never meant to let you go.