I stare up tracing the slowspread stain

I stare up, tracing the slow-spread stain

like water spilled in some forgotten fight.

The tile sags beneath the weight of wet silence,

a bruise blossoming across its cheap white face.

The drip—steady, relentless—drops through the dark,

a metronome for the waiting, the paused breath.

Fluorescents flicker, casting tired shadows

that stretch like ghosts between cracked grout lines.

No one looks up; no one sees the quiet rot,

and I imagine the ceiling’s slow surrender—

a tired body folding, worn and forgotten,

while minutes dissolve like the water stains.