Ceiling

Oftentimes I lay afloat on my bed, buoyant above
Swarths of blanket and dark thoughts, and
Moments of self reflection come to me
Instead of dull-eyed sleep. They trail down
Salty corners of my eyes to the borders of my face,
Like unruly wires of a headphone, cold on the skin.

They make me aware of the dimple where face
Meets ears, the delicate teacup-shaped for tears to pool. 
Cheers to the fairies who will drink from the fountain
By my jaw, and paint my dreams with their drunken games. 
Ear guards, tear cups, whatever stops them from
Squirming their way into my soft cranial thoughts.

The ceiling reflects back at me a moon outside,
And I become less of a person, and more a wobbling
Pale disk on the melancholic surface of sleep.