Look at Me
Look what you’ve done.
See what you have already done.
My heart startles like a deer at the thought of you;
my body learns joy like a sheep before the fields of fall.
Look what you’ve done—
my soul listens for your voice,
a sound that refreshes my vision.
Sweet are the scents that waft into my nostrils,
clouding my thoughts like a beam of light,
emanating from your presence—
a compulsion I would never wish to escape.
So I wait every evening to watch you pass my street.
I read books about love,
so one day I might have something meaningful to say
when I finally gather the courage to approach you.
I learned your name from a boy about my age
and made him miserable for ever knowing it—
a word too sacred to leave his lips.
I followed you home at eight each evening after Mass,
afraid you might find yourself in a place
unfavourable to your delicate spirit.
I beg the heavens never to lose my sight;
I could not live with only your silhouette
lingering in my mind as sleep takes me.
I whisper your name three times
when the morning sun greets my consciousness.
You are not a miracle—
you are the awareness of one.
A state of mind
that teaches my thoughts absolution
And so I learned to write.
Each line, a quiet resemblance;
each poem, a confession
that never interrupts your life.
These words remain with me—
not on your doorstep,
not in your pew,
not where you might stumble upon them—
but here,
where longing belongs.
Look what you’ve done with your presence.
Look who I am because of you.
Look who stands beside you—
a shadow to your world,
always a heart’s stretch away.
W