My skin is fragile as paper
left outside to weather seasons’ change,
and on the other side are scrawled
forgotten words as ancient as the stars.
My skin is never clear enough,
but I can almost read them
in the pressure mark before the blood
runs back in again.
Slowly, as the seasons pass,
all the sleeping words inside me
will percolate out through my pores
as I look the other way.
After that I’ll see them only
in short glimpses at a distance;
and I will spend my whole life searching
for what it is they say.