Milligrams of Release and Reprieve

Ancient,
Anxious.
Like a paperback,
Smooth to the touch,
But no colors to crush,
With your eyes.

Licking your lips,
Signals I'd wish to forget.
I put it all on a bet,
That I placed when I was still yet growing.
A minor mistake still showing.

Only this house,
With rooms filled to the roof,
With ghosts of calloused calls,
Would I pray to be buried.
Can deeply be something granted?

Walls painted with perfume,
My ceiling fan spits a gust so strong,
I had to clutch to hold on.

Luckily underneath was warm,
I thought that what was normal,
Was abstract and conformed.
Low and behold, I know now,
There is no doubt between the couch.

Gone with admission,
And all of my superstitions,
Were proven right all along.

Only this house,
Filled to the roof,
With ghosts and calloused calls,
Would I pray to be buried,
Can deeply be something granted?