the white fall

there is a time that brings forth and lets go, that bends on the bearings of holding & the waves of washed onto drawn near,

these are the washed onto shore ..


in writing the next true, the word that follows and the scrunch inside or the rubber band held and aimed toward it, letting go and slapped against my fore finger, fallen flat directly below

i submerged just half of my head into the cold water and my body was hidden behind a rock, my legs spraying out towards a sky

another revisited time, of turning over and not turning in, the hands folding, the clock hand held directly at noon not moving, the birth of a dead child, and the dream of a desire that outlasted a love that was soiled in the submission of a self, some drifting return ..

the time of dying brought them together, it was three years ago they stopped talking, while we find fathers in the walls, in the patterns of a carpet, or the light through the window, and the mother as the chip in our nail or the dirt underneath it

.. i went back and forth, i wept back and forth, i crawled backward, i lay forward on the bending ground, the slant of hills and an inception of a city that calls to the alleyways that somersaulting down would end in a smash,

i don't take to love lightly,

i cried because i questioned it too much,

i was not from here,

my body had a life that before i entered, it would hide in small closets and sing quietly only to the trees or at the invasion of their eyes ..


there is a spark that ignites, and there is a spark that goes out .. it can be quite disconcerting to discern which one is which .. and still, she strokes the hair behind my eyes and says that it may come, and to hold hands open while letting it slip through watching the horizon, the line that bears between and is fallen into it and yet holds the falling to sleep itself

Copyright 2019 ⓒ / Forrest Gallagher