Scoptophilia

I lie in my bed, Sunday best dressed,
staring at the ceiling, plaster spattered,
two colorless eyes stare back,
pushed from the texture, blinking,
lamentations of fragments,
mosiaced refraction jointed
in tears, ran like hot flux,
as I watch me, looking down
from the ceiling, looking up
at my own eyes, transfixed -
locked in a staring contest
against myself, losing tides
of time, until I am interrupted --
by a single knock upon the bedroom door.