I write in the midnight corner of now and what is to come. Sifting through the ashes of the forgotten. I seek what I fail to find in a light I can scarcely see. The rain washes the sins from my skin so that the ones inside can bleed back out. My words catch the air with gentle, intense passion. I caress the broken cheek hoping to fix it and finding only myself more broken. I know not of what is to come but I can prepare myself with the ammunition of my past. The brittle autumn wind calms me with the vibrant colors of a dying world. My mind wanders into the absent recesses of my twisted imagination. The words I write copy the voices in my torn heartstrings. I lust for the cold rain fingers that embezzle my mind. My soul is painted with the bright blackness of a blackhole's laughter. There is a butterfly caged in my stomach and I'm too afraid to let it free.
- - -
When will I know that I've found rapture?

~S.C. Kelley

i was blue but You wanted red,
i felt it in everything You left unsaid.
You said You loved my icy glow,
but You prefer her rosy manifesto.
you can me let go, you can rebuff,
i understand i’m not good enough.

When we were kids, you would countdown from ten and when it got to one you’d come looking for me. Chasing me. When you wouldn’t be able to come find me, I felt relieved.

Now, I think of you at ten; the first time we talked. Your eyes at nine and how they lit up something inside of me I had thought never existed. Your smile at eight and at seven, your warm breath in my ear telling me everything will be alright. You tell me you love me at six and at five your lips are pressed against mine, your hands are everywhere. At four you disappear and three you’re back out of the blue. At two you feed me lies and then at one you admit what I’ve always known: you tell me you love her and you’re gone for good.

This time when we got to one and and you did not even come looking for me, I felt disappointed.

-L.K.

i remember
rainy days
spent gazing
out of cold
windows
we'd race
raindrops
with our
fingertips
breath misting
the glass
creating
swirling
inner worlds
of hidden
messages
and signs
we were young
enough then
to remember
how to sing the
melody of rain
and understand
its secret language
of ebb and flow
in an echo of time
ageless and pure
in its sincerity

~~~~~~~~~~~~

People write such cliche poems.

True love that goes on for lifetimes.

A gray city in the rain, colored only by the music of life.

Hot coffee entrenching the soul with warmth in the crisp autumn.

The perfect snowflake landing on the nose of his winter angel.

The smell of northern pines after a heavy storm.

Her unparalleled footprints in the sand with each angelic step.

Tailgate stargazing on an ideal summer night, hands intertwined.

But isn't that what poetry is all about?

The most heartfelt descriptions about the broadest of beautiful moments?

~S.C. Kelley