Tag: longing

boating at night

the boat of course is metaphor
though it is, undeniably, night

and fingers do trail over the side,
but also over stern and bow

it is also true that we do move as water –
that hair cascades and skin ripples

but that again is metaphor,
for which I am unapologetic

and I cannot be at all contrite
for not minding stirring up depths

or were we to drown together
beneath the moon’s regard

in fact, my heart, that may be all
that is certain and indisputable

© Sarah Whiteley

2.20.2015

that absence hangs around, a lone note held – b-flat drifting long after the tables have emptied a blind man would have known to find a way away from you but fire makes us stupid and before this space was vacant it. was. on. fire. … Continue reading 2.20.2015

disturbances

the hesitations spring like reeds
that sway and bend at the edge of me

I have been disturbed beyond surfaces

as if the stone of your name were dropped
again and again into the heart of me

and I must swallow it whole or break

© Sarah Whiteley

I know when it is I am burning

I know when it is
I am burning –

when the sparrow
in my throat
bursts free from
the fretful gravity
of kisses nearly pressed
but not

and when gazes
glance away
from what has not
yet been but is almost
said and left to hang
between

I know when it is
I am burning –

when on the verge
of crumbling into dust
I find myself at precipices
and am far too fragile
to bear your touch
without incineration

but if at night
I may find my boldness –
and peace in being
still beside you –
then I pray time
will consume the day
and love bend
light away

© Sarah Whiteley

attraction

I am a bewilderment
of limbs –

a profusion
of uncomfortable truths –

and as a result,
am ungainly beside you

all twisted fingers
and benumbed tongue

but lit up inside
by fireflies

© Sarah Whiteley

tangible/intangible

here again is that anticipated
when of you,
more of if than of ever

and I tell myself I can picture
your bare feet
on my floorboards

convince myself I wouldn’t mind
the invasion
of my space – its sanctity

overrun by the solid reality
of an other
sweeping aside the silent hours

for tangible skin –
currently irrelevant
in intangible when

© Sarah Whiteley

I have called your bones mine

I have called your bones mine,
and pulled your limbs about me,
so that I might (in darkness)
be taken for the beating core of you –

the same delight that lies in curling
vine-like (rapacious green) through branches
toward some finer, higher light
pulses in the throat, a growing thing

that rises and places its pleasures
in that nook of you, which is me,
so that I might (in reverence)
be taken for the vehement shine of you

© Sarah Whiteley