THE CRACK IN THE CEILING AT DAWN

serhii volyk

Jetlag gifts you this:
watching darkness lift
from a ceiling you don’t know.
A hairline fracture maps the plaster
like a river on an old atlas.

You trace its path in the half-light—
where it forks near the corner,
where it deepens above the bed.
Someone else has done this before.
Maybe many someones.

This is how we claim temporary space.
Not with possessions,
but with attention.
By memorizing the imperfections
that make this room real,
and ours for a few fragile hours.

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