I can't scrape away the last of my paint just can't though I've been peeling myself away from these walls seven years now new walls, yes, can wear my color it's yours I'll miss © Sarah Whiteley

the hours of you that remain

we say goodnight, then goodnight, and once more a goodnight of softening kisses - just as the dawn cracks the night I count the hours of you that remain to me, and tuck them about us - thin comfort against the coming light © Sarah Whiteley


tonight, it's the Blues that slow-doleful prayer for understanding - a measure of salt for the cheeks on a night spent by the window with a glass of something that burns (on the rocks, of course) and that solitary pine for companion tonight, it's the Blues, yes but tomorrow, I'll be Jazz


6:57 AM and light's early overture has warmed the cherry petals just enough that the faintest scent of sweet emerges maybe it's more than just scribbling poets who note these moments and mark the time, mentally ticking off the mileposts to restoration but this morning's note is more than that - today's surfacing defines a … Continue reading mileposts

as if moths

as if moths could somehow supply meaning she gazes upon the half-light of ghost-wings hitches of breath leaving them unstirred beyond the disheartened dust of pale sill on a night too damp for flight © Sarah Whiteley