The full moon shines in through the transparent white curtains
lighting up the tiny room that’s floating on a sea of unpolished wood.
The giant floor dwarfs the doors and windows,
and engulfs the walls, isolating me from the rest of the house.
Stranded on the couch, surrounded by oak surf, I slide
my feet back and forth, skiing along the top of the wood,
the sand and dirt and dead skin cells flying by under my feet.
An unimportant logo on an abandoned business card
surfs the floor towards me, with a little help from the breeze.
The whir of the ceiling fan is accompanied by an occasional ding
from the pull string hitting the light fixture—
one that looks like a bowl of fruit filled with pear shaped light bulbs
glued upside down to the bottom of the fan.
When the moon cowers behind the clouds, the light brown waves
turn darker. The grooves in the bare wood pound my feet,
while the ceiling distorts into an angry sky.
Shadows act like clouds swirling above an upset ocean.
The logo, stuck surfing in the impending storm will be lost before dawn,
and I will slowly drowned in my own sea of thoughts.
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