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
ebbtide 