[nothing with you has been enough]

nothing with you has been enough

at 2 AM, to an audience of bricks,
I can be honest with my heart

and if I sit here long enough,
a prayer might stumble in –

something akin to what
moths find in porch-light –

I have been to-ing and fro-ing
with the consequences

but in the end, it comes to this:
we might love each other,
if only I’d forget to run

© Sarah Whiteley

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love, in summation

one by one, when
you are most likely
to be unsuspecting,
I make them –

these petal-gestures,
trifling bright,
scraps with some
perhaps deeper meaning

one day – maybe –
you’ll be struck
by revelation,
with unexpected math

© 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

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