every line is a love story

every line I write is a love story
whether I write to say my skin
remembers the imprint of your hand
as if it were there now still
or I thought for the smallest of moments
I heard your voice only to discover
it was the thrush calling out its love
for sky from the pole outside my window
even when I write simply
I stopped to buy the milk this morning
it is what is said underneath
that makes this still of love
the things that are unpenned
how as I turned the corner of the building
a man whose shoulders echoed the slope of yours
startled a joyful greeting from me
until he turned and in the early sun
I saw that he was never you
or how as I stood in the coolness
in the false light of the dairy section
I stared at the cartons of milk
and recalled how it was to have someone
to buy milk with – how it was to argue
over skim (too watery) versus whole
(the only milk worth having)
to finally compromise on two percent
(which I detest nearly as much as skim)
or how when fumbling for my card
at the register the checker
with the surprisingly kind eyes saying
‘and how are you this morning?’
I think we all know how ‘fine’
is one of the easiest lies lips can form
yes, every line a love story
I’ve placed my heart in each
whether I write my love, I love
the fit of you to me, or perhaps just
today I opened the mailbox
and found it was empty

© Sarah Whiteley