My secret affair with the ceiling above me.
It wouldn’t have happened if my wife only loved me.
Here she comes now, barking at some crime,
I wonder what I did to screw things up this time.

She sneers through her teeth “How dare you do that!”
I lean back on the chair, and arch my tight back.
She snickers “How could you, you promised you loved me.”
So here’s how it starts with the ceiling above me.

Eight days a week she yells, but I don’t know what for.
I promise I love her, and I say it once more.
But all I get is a door to the face.
A quick reminder of who really runs this place.

She yells at me again, vexed as a riot.
My ears tune her out; it’s finally quiet.
My eyes roll back as she begins to cry,
For a quick hello to the ceiling up high.

The ceiling has cracks, some wrinkles, none deep.
Its porcelain features give me some space to think.
A wide whiteboard, a place just for me.
Anywhere is good though, anywhere my wife couldn’t be.

She yells some more, and cries way too much.
I look at her questionably, and her nose starts to scrunch.
Oh no, oh god, I have done it this time.
I should have been like “No honey, it’ll be fine”

But I know the truth, and it’s nothing to handle.
I have been silent this way since I heard about Randle.
Her man on the side, guess I’m not enough.
But he will have her soon. I know life’s tough.

I admire the ceiling, waiting for time to go by.
I know she is almost done by the lack of her cry.
The yelling ceases, and now I tense back up,
The time with the ceiling was not near enough.

A ring hits my cheek, but its not an attack.
“How can I live with a man who won’t talk back?”
She is leaving me, and I cautiously flash a smile.
I beg she doesn’t come back, and hope I’m not in denial.

The wife is gone ceiling, it’s just you and me.
This is how a relationship should be.
Both can just stare at another, and know how they feel.
And trust each other, with no big deal.

My secret affair with the ceiling above me.
It wouldn’t have happened if my wife only loved me.
Now she is gone, and my heart is stiff and slow.
A feeling that the ceiling awfully well knows .