Kelsey Writes
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poetry

Creative Writing Poetry

The Plants on My Windowsill

The plant by the window has grown again. A spider plant
with leaves stretching out, exploding in every direction.

It grows every time I turn my back. Silent & slow while I sleep.
While I watch tv. Cook dinner. Every time I turn around, it has grown,

new shoots appearing that were never there before. Sometimes
I think I’m imagining it. Remembering it wrong from the last time.

But yet, it grows. It has to. Too slow to see but still alarmingly fast.
 The plant in its small red pot didn’t exist six months ago and here it is,

growing silently on its perch in the corner, drunk on water and meager
glimpses of winter sun. I wonder what it’s growing to, what God

it’s reaching up to kiss. It shares this space with me. The plant
and its brothers, all of us living & breathing in my small living room.

Last week, I killed my aloe plant. Fed it too much water and it died.
It sat softly on my table for a year. Growing when no one was looking,

shy & unassuming. I was only trying to pay it some extra attention, 
some extra love. Do you think it knew? Do you think it knew it was love?

here&gone
Creative Writing Poetry

Here & Gone

I lay beside you in the half-light,  your hand tucked into the curve of my side.
At midnight I get up & put the kettle on to boil, bring a mug down from the shelf.

I turn my palm over and then over again, a grey silhouette that shouldn’t belong
to me. Have you noticed yet, I’ve been turning to fog when you’re not looking?

There’s music coming from the bar around the corner. A band is covering
The Romantics & I keep thinking of all the places I’ve left pieces of myself behind.

We take turns defining our bodies. This is a knee & this isn’t. This is you slipping
through me. You bring your hand to my chest; a heart bleeding into another heart.

Yes, I think I’ve let a ghost in. Yes, I think it knows me well. It rustles around
in my skin now, restless. I grieve myself in the distant way of an old pain.

The kettle shrieks. I look around & you are everywhere. Your hereness
like a smudge on everything you touch; my goneness wipes away any trace of me.

Here and gone, we are both falling into someplace else. You pitching forward
in the night trying to fill up space with your bright orange light, throbbing in the dark.

Me, wet & shining & translucent, scurrying back into the weeds, into the mud. 
Am I ghost? No. A ghost trying to be a body again. Smoke trying to be fire.

Poetry

The Quiet

They couldn’t find the missing plane & you
couldn’t find your way out of the dark.
Maybe we lose things because we fear
what happens when we find them.
The greatest thing I did today
was open my eyes and keep them open.
I wrote to you in dandelion stems.
Giving you a living thing
to make you feel more alive.
How we live
like we’d rather be dancing.
How we dance
like we’d rather be touching.
You couldn’t feel it.
I wanted to feel it; I felt it.
The plane was found in pieces
at the bottom of the ocean.
I crawled into the dark with you
and realized you had become it.