of my one-bedroom, one bath,
with the lights on and doors open,
i pause to stare up at my fan.
i recall listening to its whirr,
entranced by its moving blades,
as she told me she loved me,
and later, when she said she cheated.
laying down, i used to trace the fractal
webbing of the stucco ceiling,
sometimes with a smile on my face
and others with it painted in tears.
pain, joy, sadness, delight,
a cacophony of emotions,
a soundless orchestra of feelings
drowned out only by the whirr.
a non-trivial number of hours
spent staring, wondering, hoping,
as i am poised to leave it all behind,
start a new chapter, find a new fan.
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