no stars have come for us…

no stars have come for us

no birds align in coded message

there is only us and all the ways
I say without saying

that I am both broken
and blooming, and uncertain

how to welcome hope and despair
on such unequal footing

© Sarah Whiteley

things I cannot tell you

I cannot tell you, for example,
that I am resting against the ache
of not seeing you rise in the morning
to sip your coffee at the window

or that the prospect of you
is the hidden sun in my throat
that glows, that pulls roots, and yes,
I would joyfully plant myself beside you

and also, I cannot tell you
that you are my favorite kind of ‘yes,’
my affirmation that the mountain
will not fall from beneath me

and that the whole of my skin
sleeps until you are near enough
to wake it – that all of me resides
inside almost, maybe, not quite

© Sarah Whiteley

*

I am in love with
your golden-reds

with the sting
of restraint

with pretending
the sweet salt

of your palm
is mine

© Sarah Whiteley

payment

my knowledge of you
is not free

I pay for it, as one does
with any passage –

in silences,
in glances held

in the avid awareness of you alone
amongst the crowd,

and in relinquishing
the oft-sharp joy light must feel

in falling upon
that most hallowed of curves –

that pale, beloved arch –
the back of your sweet neck

yet, I am paid back a hundredfold
with the charm of knowing

© Sarah Whiteley

pearl from shadow

there is no finer promise
than the uncertain light
which finds you
from between the blinds
and casts you
in bewitching blue –

a hue into which my hands
are driven to dive –
pulling the pearl
from the shadow

© Sarah Whiteley

no grace in wanting

there is no grace
in true wanting –

it staggers,

and refuses
to be written –

its divinity locked
in the eyes

that yours decline
ever to meet

© Sarah Whiteley

misinterpretation

I perched there – my hands,
my words, undelivered,
on the edge of the porch –

I could not be otherwise,
though you were a hand’s-breadth,
(a breath’s-breadth) away

why leap only to be denuded,
disabused of what I’d only hoped
your hands had meant?

perhaps I’ve spread
the interpretation of your touch
ridiculously thin,

and shaped only future regret

© Sarah Whiteley

some part of me with you

some part of me with you
is never solid

some bit never retains
its perimeter

it seethes, creates secrets
of light and shadow

the inconstant fore-edge
of a storm

some part of me with you
shimmers uncertain

seeps beyond the threshold
of thin skin

as if there were so much
of you within me

what is actually me
cannot be contained

and overflows

© Sarah Whiteley

*

tangled in the lines
drawn by your lips –
bursting red,
and wild as flowers

I savor the grace
of your hands –
I am as slow
as honey in them,
and as sweet

© Sarah Whiteley

otherwise occupied

I’ve discovered a trail
between the indented kiss
of your right clavicle
and the contour of your chest
that invites the dusty curl
of light from between Sunday
morning blinds – it begs
to be photographed,
but always my hands
are otherwise occupied

© Sarah Whiteley