I am the floor, nice to meet you, it said.
Solid wood of rectangular shape
In a perfect, logical, grid.
Flat
It can not look up.
Though,
I can feel it staring at me
In the quiet of its shyness.
I can feel
Unfamiliar insecurity
Arising from a frame always being walked on
And never really admired.
Subjected to the bottom
It stays,
Soiled by tears of rain and snow,
Repaired by the wind turmoil,
Blind at the peaceful sunset.
And though
Part of the same home
Only one between us
Can reach the view below and above.
I am the ceiling, I say, nice to meet you too.
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