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From the other side of the world

my friend typed,

“What’s up?”

I said,

right now I’m in my room,

so the ceiling is up.

The light hanging from the ceiling is up,

illuminating

the darkest corner of my room

and my heart.

The paint on the ceiling is up,

staying there for years

in its bruises and patches,

reflecting the cold of winter

and the warmth of summer.

A spider has woven a web

that is up too.

It lives there,

not knowing its fate.

It may be swept away

in the next moment.

Still, it waits without worry,

perhaps believing

that if it survives,

it will simply weave another web.

I didn’t have a straight answer

for my friend,

because I wasn’t quite myself.

I had been staring at the ceiling

for a long time

before his message arrived.

Maybe he was surprised,

curious,

perhaps even annoyed

by what I replied.

While he waited for an answer,

the ceiling had already given me one.