Late Night Restless
Theresa Ann White
A year ago, sleep was easy.
We shared good nights across a square of light,
You a thousand miles north while I,
I am still here.
Energy coursed, shifted, transformed me.
The kinetic link of you charging buried potential,
like found cables or corrected circuitry,
juiced again, alive and spilling.
It took a dozen months to unearth these fibers.
This nature ground down in abentia,
now fervent, limitless in erotic fancy,
suffused with potent desire.
It is late night. My pencil quick across the page,
unerring in its scratch. You are absent.
Only an echo gives comfort.
Memory is a strong thing.
Dawn disturbs the shadows, quiets the whispers.
The water bottle on my nightstand is empty.
It comes to this: you turn me on.
I flicker at your switch.
