the whisper itself was sound

it looks different at night ..

 

when crisp collided and turned to mountainous, the amber flicker

falling asleep in a day's haze, on the porch behind under its clouds or stars, of day terrors that fall into night dreams 

the quick passen by, an either image or outline, a color and a negative underdeveloped

easy fallen into, either waking into a cave, stepping over a hole, hitting the land mine or both jumping off cliffs and diving into swimming pools

only the stillness that occurred in your step led you to it as if the whisper itself was sound

 

how did we, when in the bus, on mornings to school, imaginings of life, of corridors and corners

the lifetimes of falling in, and then the lifetimes beyond it, of love, of back to, and back to, again back to ..

 

we walked on the city streets, we found the letters of our names that others carved,

one time holding hands, one time not looking at each other, one time crying for life, one time taking it

i heard music there, personal concerts that summoned the dead

the limbs fallen off, of trees, of bodies, the arms in sewers, either handed to or taken, both pieces given to another in attempts, and only to lose .. in it more.

 

when i sit, i only come back to the color of those things .. something purple of them,

falling asleep under the cherry blossom tree that blooms only for a day 

driving in a car, hearing the thing that says slow down before the police man pulls by,

biking to turns that i would not take, where rituals had taken place, leftover flowers or the half of a butteryfly's wing, remnants of shared ..

 

it looks different at night,

i don't sleep on half of the bed, i don't wake up to a sun on your face, there's a body, it's not mine but i work alongside it,

the sound it makes dancing, or laughing, 

the signature rupture of being, a personality not tamed toward,

aimed feelings at the flutter & the moment of seeing ..

it is different at night.

 

copyright 2018 ⓒ / forrest gallagher