Between the Slats.

Every time you say

you hate drop ceilings,

I have to laugh.

Not because it’s funny.

It’s not.

It’s just—

I hated them first.

Ever since that day

I laid back on your bed,

looked up,

and saw that stupid note

tucked between the slats.

Some other girl’s handwriting—

all sunshine and hearts and

“good morning, handsome”—

like she woke up with you,

every single day.

And I didn’t.