Ceiling Sediment

The air stood thick, too heavy to breathe.

I lay there, staring up.

And the fan, it hung, a quiet wreath,

collecting moments, drop by drop.

A velvet edge of gray along the white,

each blade a soft, neglected wing.

A landscape of what's out of sight,

a testament to everything

I haven't cleaned, or even seen.

Small fibers, skin, a silent fall.

This slow, soft growth, forever keen

to settle, waiting for a call

that never comes. It just hangs there,

a fragile, muted, layered thing.

Too tired to move, too tired to care,

what tiny worlds the dust can bring.