what this place with no crawl space

what this place with no crawl space

and maybe even no insulation up there

has taught me is there can be a ceiling

that is simply the underside of the roof

and a roof that is the ceiling’s outer face,

like a thin möbius strip membrane

of back-to-back opposites keeping me safe

via their impermeable mesh of paradoxes.

what a sound the rain makes,

when there is the least buffer!

it’s like it’s angry the seemingly easiest route to me is blocked

and it must roll off and become one

with the infinite, united, river of life.

the other day I told my friend how sad I feel sometimes

that I don’t have a partner who will have known me

across all the different phases of my life,

that to any new person I meet my past is just

a set of stories to be heard once before moving on,

but I wasn’t thinking of the flip side, was I,

of the roof to that ceiling, that binding promise

that somewhere out there there is someone

with arms open wide enough to embrace my past

all the way to the end of a shared future,

so tightly that even every tear I’ve ever shed

rolls into one punch of water deflected down

into the ground we’re growing upon together.