Two-hundred and Thirty-five: No One’s Going to Love You More

I’ll sit backwards in Mustangs just so I can watch you drive
and we’ll hold hands over the gearstick as we decide in which
direction to go together. We’ll dive into lakes of love, never
reaching the bottom because we won’t have a line for that;
there will be no limits to what my heart will feel for you.
And at night we will count stars and kiss each other once
for each one, and tell each other that we’ll stop kissing
when we run out of stars, and I’ll tell you that every time
you kiss me, my heart grows a new constellation. And
sometimes I’ll talk about my scars, the ones I remember,
and you’ll trace them and call them stepping stones to you,
and I will half-laugh and half-cry because there are so many
fucking stepping stones but the more there are, the less weighed
down I feel. And I’ll read you poetry that doesn’t make sense
but flows through your veins, into your bones. And the only
promise I’ll need is your breath on my neck and your sure arms
wrapped around my waist.  And no one’s going to love you more.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

6 thoughts on “Two-hundred and Thirty-five: No One’s Going to Love You More”

  1. 🙂 I like this poem. Do you know that every day I look for something to read that is happy, light, or just simply funny? It helps with the day-to-day coping of you-know-what.

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