Les plus lus ▸
Bronte Gallegos
I lie awake
Hoping, praying
You will turn to me
Look at me with those loving eyes
But you never do.
Every time I hope
It never comes true.
I don't know why I have restless nights
Thinking maybe, just maybe
You would hold me tight in your arms again
I don't know why
It affects me
Or why you affect me
The way you do
But the truth is
That is only the tip
Whiteness enough off that coast to last a summer,
with chunks sized to drift among swells
like lost boats rising bottoms up to glimmer,
then dropping from a coastal watcher's view
halfway from here to wherever it is sky
comes down to touch water, blue on blue,
or even larger continents of white
shot through with green, shouldering breakers
with unhurried calm, things for night
to break on, or even day. You and I,
not having seen such before, go out
to frame each other with one in a camera's eye
and watch a schooner nosing among bays
scalloped along fringes of the beast.
The little ship goes near, but turns away
over and over to run, a cur who knows how strong