Soliloquy

The sound of the creaking of the ceiling fan
felt different when you stopped being in love with me.
It was robust when you were, and inert

when you weren’t, and I was compelled to switch it off.
There didn’t seem anything wrong with me
but there was always the fear of getting crushed under it.

It felt different when the stars were lit in joy on a clear sky
ornamented by the jealous glares of the moon.
We always tried to avoid such petty confrontations

doing everything possible to preserve this sanctum sanctorum.
Hatred spewed its vile juices along the living room
but envy was quiet enough to polish off its wares unabashed.

I query if you listen to the sound of the creaking
of the ceiling fan in your room adorned by posters of a sulking
Sandra Oh, or if you choose to sleep through the fracas.

Does the ceiling ever look you in the eye with mercy askance?
When it rains, I feel every drop of happenstance
seep through the roof, unable to bat an eyelid amid the bedlam.