what following finds

skin brushed, bitten

haystacks scratch, the skin breathing and puncturing, the scab purple and then torn, scarred in memory even when .. the bodies of beautiful, membrane layers 

solomon asks only herself: “where did it come from?” she looks more deeply at her hands, the lines of skin, the word and then there was it, against a wall, in a tree, the hands of leaves, resting and pinching the moon, or touched together feeling over and over  

“who found there to be a problem” .. she faced the mirror each day, drew her bath and soaked, watching the salt down the drain go somewhere and her holdings with them  

most of the world said so, and until the day she stopped seeing the sun, when the waves came over, somersaults of salt and sea, the pull of a soul and then the tides that called it back, to meet in the rippling reflection, another, who after the first laying down, stayed and moved with the wind that it would whisper “closer”, solomon’s embrace 

to rest for the eternity in a magic, or a mountain that doesn’t move, sparking it softly, the stroke of a tender heart or a seared soul and eyes aglow looking, where the voices of those, ghosts past that no longer dwell in window sills and alleyways, though alive cannot speak strongly to something that waits and peers, ponds and pools where the creatures gather, where two bodies find again, that the problem was merely a mechanism of which used and when it would lead awry toward a war and away from a mystery where the language of a space speaks loudly, 

conversations are not always communication, communication is not always a conversation and to the lover, one rests in the small surprises hidden and the hand carving again and back to or the arms crossed and chest barren that turns the other way, using the mechanism again to stop seeing and spend the eternity sitting next to it, not touching  

Copyright 2019 ⓒ / Forrest Gallagher