The Ceiling Fan Tells Me
Wilco

The ceiling fan told me you’re not coming back
I heard the hum of the motor, like our last conversation
Whispering regrets that lingered in the stale air,
While soft memories danced around the room
Where you once painted the walls with laughter.

I packed my bags, but left behind your smile,
Folded the warmth into my suitcase, a hidden treasure
But there was no map for this uncharted territory,
Just roads that turned to dust, and places I can’t remember.

Every street I took veered away from your heartbeat,
Skipping that treasured double-tap on the doorframe—
Each light that changed too fast, a speeding reminder
Of the time that escaped like sand through my fingers.

Bits of conversation stick like gum on pavement,
The unfinished stories, the whispers of indecision,
Playing in reverse like the records we never finished,
And I can’t tell if I miss your touch or the way you forgave my madness.

Now, I stand in front of a mirror, a stranger stares back,
The home we built in candlelit optimism, broken.
You wore dreams like a second skin, shedding them at dawn,
While I held onto everything that had no weight, no breath.

So I drive through the haze of uncertainty, the dusk
Framed by the rearview, chasing echoes of what we were,
With pavement stretching endlessly ahead, like thoughts unspoken,
And the ceiling fan spins on, anchored to yesterday, a tether.

Reaching for solace in cities that feel like strangers,
Nights turn colder without your warmth beside me,
But still, I wonder if the stars have whispered your name,
If the wind carries my apologies through time.

I’ll find my way back, even if it’s only in dreams,
Where the fan spins slowly, unraveling the knots,
Drawing me back to where laughter and love never left,
To the gray dawn of acceptance, where both hearts can mend.