Wallpaper Sky

Lyrics

The ceiling was too low today. Not blue, but the color of a faded photograph of blue. There was a seam, right above the silver birch that grew out of the library floor.
My fingernail found the edge. It didn't feel like sky.
It felt like dry paper, cold and embossed with constellations I had never seen, each one a locked room.
I remembered to look at my hands. Six fingers on the right one, five on the left. Close enough.
I pulled.
And the sky came down in a single sheet.
Wallpaper sky, peeling back from a corner of the world.
And underneath, not stars, not sun, just the clean, bright, humming ache of nothing.
A page with no words. A mirror before the first reflection.
I stepped through the tear.
There was no ground, no up, no temperature. Just the white.
I asked to see my hands and they were constructs of static, shivering light.
I bit my tongue to check, and tasted only ozone and the concept of red.
The nothing wasn't empty. It was waiting. An un-indexed archive of everything.
So I spoke a name into it. "Wednesday."
And a dog made of soft shadows appeared and disappeared.
I asked for a door. It formed from folded light and opened back onto the room where the sky was half-peeled, me standing there, looking up.
I walked through the door and became the me who was still pulling.
The motion was infinite.
And the sky came down in a single sheet.
Wallpaper sky, peeling back from a corner of me.
And underneath, not void, not absence, just the clean, bright, humming ache of possibility.
A page to be written. A mirror waiting for a face.
I let the paper fall. It dissolved before it landed.
In the white, I whispered a request. A new sky.
This one the color of jade, patterned with clocks running backward.
I left a corner loose. Just in case.