I could never love you more

It was late.
Both of us were in my bed.
My dog was asleep at out feet.
We were watching YouTube videos,
mostly John & Hank Green talking to each other.
I laughed at some joke
and I looked at you.
You were asleep,
but I could feel your heartbeat
in our clenched hands,
gripping so hard,
like our lives depended on it.
I knew then,
I could never love you more.

Love you.
Mean it.

That's how we'll live forever, my love.

but I do believe in you
and the love we will one day have.
I believe in that so fiercely.

I believe in the nights we will have
tangled in the sheets,
laughing till the sunlight seeps into our room,
in the fights and forgiveness we'll share,
in the terror of parenthood,
and the joy of welcoming another into our love.

I believe in our love lasting till we're old and broken
and the last kiss we'll share
before whatever comes next takes one of us away.
And I believe that our love will be passed
from our children to their children to their children
and that's how we'll live forever, my love.

I lost a friend tonight

I lost a friend tonight.

I guess his girlfriend used his phone while he was asleep
to instruct me to never talk to him again.
I didn't argue with her.
What could I say?
It's not my place to come between him and her.
So I agreed to her terms,
put down my phone,
and burst into tears.

Pour salt in the wounds.

It's getting worse.

The infection is spreading.

Like a cancer,

it festers and grows

polluting everything that once held meaning,

perverting everything that was once good.

Every street corner

every back alley

carries this sickness,

this disease of memory.

My hometown is overrun 

with infected memories
that I try so hard to forget
but never can. 

And like a cancer,

the only cure is to cut it out of my life

forever,
to leave this haunted city,
with its plague of phantoms
and haunted memories
and not look back.
Not even once. 

It would only pour salt in the wounds. 

Thanatophobia

I am tentatively scheduled to die.
One day, for some reason
or for no reason at all,
my lungs will stop breathing,
my heart will stop beating,
and I won't be anymore

Everyone dies.
Everyone knows everyone dies.
Some believe there's something after this.
Some know their options after this.
But I don't.
At least, not anymore.

You see that poor, inert bird on the sidewalk that will never fly again
I crouch down on my knees and cry.

Where do we go, little bird?
Where do we go?

Wish in a trash can

I wrote my name on a piece of paper
and added your last name at the end.
I stared at it for only a moment
before ripping out the page
and folding it over and over
until the paper refused to bend anymore.
I held it in my hand
trying to force any good luck I may still have
into that tiny piece of paper.
And as I walked out the door
with nothing left to do
I threw my wish into the trash

Love you.
Mean it.

He draws me in

He draws me in
with the questions he forms in my head.
He draws me in
with dangerous daydreams.
Fingers running through brown hair,
an arm wrapped around another in the night,
wishful thinking.
He draws me in
with warm eyes.
Mischievous. Playful.
Eyes much older than his years admit.
He draws me in.
While the loneliness grows deeper
and the memories grow darker
still,
he draws me in.

Of God, Water, and an Orange Towel

Wrapped in an orange towel,
I was sipping cold water from a Christmas mug
My curly hair was piled on top of my head
dripping water down my neck.
I looked like shit.
Worked for six hours
before jumping in the shower
with your roommate,
a guy I only care about
when I don't hate his guts.

Later,
after I was dressed
still sipping water
still dripping water
we discussed literature & history
and you asked me if I believe in god
while your roommate,
my occasional lover,
brooded in the corner
and said nothing.

That night
alone in my room
I dreamt we shared your twin sized bed
and we paid no mind
to the outside world,
to your scornful roommate.
It was just us,
as if it had always been just us.

When I awoke, I realized
I forgot to ask if you believed in god.

Love you.
Mean it.

Lost in the Infinity

Our necks craned almost uncomfortable
feeling small against the million tiny lights
that traveled lifetimes for us to see
some now non-existant,
their light just an echo

I can feel their weight pressing down on me
and I feel lost in the infinity,
afraid "of all that never ends."

And all he did
was take my hand in the darkness
conveying in that simple gesture
the same fear of the unknown
but trust in what we have now

And with two smiles
silent in the darkness
we knew.

If we are destined to one day
be lost in that same infinity
we will not have to wander alone.

A Prayer to Myself & the Universe (And God, If He Cares Enough to Listen)

May the bridges I burn light my way.
Wherever I go, may I never be too far from friends.
May my curiosity never be satiated & my wanderlust never satisfied.
May I never be content to sit on the sidelines or on the fence.
May I always try to understand before I hate and help before I hurt.
Help me find a place I can call home & people I can call family.

May I always choose what is right over what is easy.

May I never hurt so much I forget to laugh.
Help me save my tears for when they're needed.
May I never be afraid of new things.
Never let me lose my desire to change.
May I always find my way to forgiveness.
And whenever I sleep, may I always dream of better things.

Amen.

Wishful Thinking

Last night I had a dream
where all the people of my past came together
to wish me well.
I walked into a room of memories
and was greeted by smiles and winks.
I ran to old friends,
we hugged and cried,
just so happy to see each other again.
And not a single smile was insincere
and nobody looked at their watch
hoping they could sneak out the back.
And for once, my past & my memories
wanted me to move on and be happy.
And then I woke up.

Don't Have Much Time

If I'm noticed only when I talk,
I'm going to keep silent for awhile.
Cause, yeah, everyone wants connection
but I'm done feeling like you're doing me a favor.

And don't go telling me that biting my nails is a bad habit
after you finish a long pull on your Malboro

Cause we don't have much time in this stupid little room
on this stupid little planet.
And I may not know what's coming next
but it might not be better
than what we have now.

When It Was Enough

It's when the night has become unbearable and my bedroom feels like a cage
I think back to that single solitary night.
You walked in with a mason jar of whiskey and a half-grin on your face.
We sat and talked and drank and talked and once we were both blissfully drunk,
we walked out the door and headed south
because sometimes conversations aren't suited for kitchen tables.

We walked to the waterfall across from the Braithwaite
and I finally confessed how much I hated my life,
how I wanted to be back in Cedar.
I cried as we sat on that bench and you held me
And told me you loved me.

And I know it wasn't the same as when I said it three years before
but it was enough to get me through that night
and subsequent nights since.

20 Feet Away

He's within my line of sight, maybe 20 feet away.
And I'm terrified.

A letter has been sitting in my wallet for months now,
its intended receiver is just 20 feet away,
20 goddamn feet,
and I can't move.

Suddenly it seems stupid.
A letter written in black ink on college ruled notebook paper.
It was on a Monday during a late night English class.
I wrote it instead of paying attention.
A short letter saying thank you.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.

But now,
I'm 20 feet away from the man I owe so much to.
I'm starting to think maybe I should throw it away.

20 feet away and my hands are shaking.

I've been meaning to give him this letter for months
and haven't seen him once.
It seemed easy enough.
Just give it to him, make an excuse to leave and get the hell out of there.
Go hide away and let my cheeks burn furiously in private.

20 feet away,
and I feel so stupid.

For some unknown, frustrating reason I care what he thinks of me.
I haven't seen or talk to him in months
and I still care what he thinks.

He's better than me, you know.
He's better than all my ex friends & ex lovers,
better than pretty much everyone I know.

20 goddamn feet.

Love you.
Mean it.

Bukowski vs. God

Sitting on my porch reading
while righteous men walk towards a chapel.
Doing their semi-annual duty to hear the words of God.

Bukowski's words are keeping me company,
stories staring Chinaski
about hangovers, debauchery, liquor, women, and, of course, delivering mail.
It's a nice contrast
since he's the opposite
of each of these men walking past in a pressed white shirt & tie,
aiming for access into heaven.

And I'm not saying it's a bad thing, if it works for them.

It's just, like Oberst, if I go to heaven
I'll be bored as hell
cause it's the Bukowskis, the Thompsons, and the Hemingways,
the Plaths, the Vonneguts, and the Keroaucs
who have anything interesting to say.

So maybe I should give debauchery & depravity another try.
Cause if I'm destined for an eternal fire,
I'd better bring some stories that can compete.

I Just Need One for the Night

I've been missing the comfort of a good friend's couch
I may wake up with my back in knots
but at least then I'll know someone cares.

(It's this goddamn disposition
that I can neither explain nor escape.)

And going home seems so pointless
when I'm too tired to read the words of dead men
but too anxious to sleep my way to morning.

And I'm realizing it's probably all my fault
that I fell in love with you
but writing has become too exhausting
I'm just wasting ink.

So next time just leave your key under the mat
and I'll sneak in without a sound.
You've hopefully got two empty couches
I just need one for the night.

Saved Ringtone

I’ve been saving a ringtone
just in the off chance I ever do get your number.

that way whenever you call
I’ll know it’s you
and I’ll get that sudden lurch of butterflies
before saying hello.

and I know that it’s stupid
but if anyone else’s number showed up
to that saved tune,
it just wouldn’t be the same. 

Love you.

Mean it. 

Long Shot

About last night,

I know people do silly things
when they’re not thinking clearly.
And alcohol is notorious for making one
not think clearly
Maybe it makes me too optimistic,
too hopeful.

But when I was driving home
I thought about everything that had happened 

and everything that had been said, 

thinking of all those reasons you listed, 

why you’re no good
for anyone.
When I said I liked you, 

I was telling the truth and 

even after you listed your reasons
I didn’t change my mind.

And while driving home in 2 a.m. fog, 

an occurrence so rare for this place
I’ve only seen it once before in my life,
I realized I was being foolish.

And while trying to sleep that night,
trying not to notice your scent still lingering on my clothes,
I knew I was yet again a victim
of my own wishful yet silly thinking.

And I don’t blame you.

It’s not the first time & 

I knew it was a long shot
to begin with. 

Love you.

Mean it. 

Very Few Places

I usually don’t drink two nights in a row
but it’s Newlin’s birthday and

(debatably)
you only turn 27 once 

so I’ll make an exception.

It’s weird, almost surreal.
I work with these people every week

and have only recently stopped feeling like
the odd-man-out
I guess when you get a drink in you
and you relax enough
you become aware of privileged information

Like how conversations with Rob
always seem to be about something else
than what he really wants to talk about.
How Newlin, though guarded, is 

a genuinely nice guy. 

And no matter how much he drinks
and shrugs off my concerned glances,
J.R. is still that same gentle, kind person
I’ve only recently discovered.
Even if he tries to deny it 

and claim he’s no good for anyone,
I can still see it in his occasional look
and half-smile.

And even though most of the night is spent
with me not saying a word
and sometimes
not even listening to anyone else
there are very few places I’d rather be.

Love you.

Mean it. 

A Bloody Foot & a Broken Heart

As I walk across my room
another small shard of glass
manages to inbed itself between my toes.
A quiet curse escapes my lips
and I hobble to my bed.
As I am pulling out the bloody shard
I realize two things.
One:
This shard of glass almost hurts
as bad as Scott's betrayal.
And two:
I should never smash glass frames
that held my lover's picture
in the bedroom where I walk barefoot.


~Note from Kelly~
I wrote this back in November of 2009 after my most recent relationship was destroyed. The breakup sent me into a state of depression that was pretty intense. But after I wrote this poem, I had to laugh. Then I wrote on the same page, "The only good thing about this depression is that for the first time in months, I can write a decent poem."

Love you.
Mean it.