The speaker lies in bed through the night and into morning, unable to sleep, with nothing to look at but the ceiling. By dawn they know it by heart, every dent, scratch and bump. The poem captures that heavy, stuck feeling of insomnia: limbs that feel "more than the ocean," eyes burning from staying open, and a mind where thoughts "run marathons" while the body doesn't move at all.
The mood is tired, restless and a little eerie. The most interesting turn comes in the last stanza, when the ceiling seems almost like a person who "knows" the speaker's bones, dimples and freckles. The speaker says they want to stop looking but feel addicted, and they suspect it's a kind of escapism. Staring upward may be a way to avoid something else, perhaps the worries in their head. The ending is resigned rather than hopeful: they admit they will never change their ways. The "freshly torn skin" line is unclear, but it adds a sense of rawness and hurt.