Until the Pen Runs Dry

I want my love for you To smell like an old book— Where you can flip through the pages Of my affections And say, “Ah! Right here. Page 86: You wiped a tear from my cheek, And kissed me with more than Just your lips. That was the first time You kissed me with your heart.” Then you close the book Of my affections And inhale lightly The smell of my love. And you kiss me gently With your heart. I wrote this poem in February of 2018, and I remember that I wrote it within the span of ten minutes. That is the case of most of the poems I write: I find myself in a rush of sudden inspiration, and then I write it all out quickly, and then edit a couple words here and there, a few grammatical errors or place a comma or colon; then, after reading it two or three times, I say it's finished. I have a bad habit of not wanting to touch poems after writing them; I feel that, even though they are 99% fictional, they are genuine in the moment, and to go back at a later time to edit them would be...

Here is a poem from my book  Like Ripples in Water  (you can purchase the book, if you'd like, here:  https://www.amazon.com/Like-Ripples-Water-Collection-Parts/dp/1979629595/ref=sr_1_2?keywords=garrett+willis+like+ripples&qid=1570411434&sr=8-2 ) Paradox I have this pit inside me— This pit that's deep And it's filled with emptiness. How contradictory, How paradoxical, How shitty. And I know I can't fill it— This empty-filled pit— With a view of the setting sun, Or a gaze up at the lambent stars. But I think— I think— I can fill it with the sound of you Breathing next to me At one in the morning. With the darkened room Still, and the porch light Lightly seeping in through the window, And the dim light gently touching The wall. Touching the wall the opposite way Of how I touched it When you said you were leaving. I found myself drunk the other night— Not that you'd be surprised; I found myself ...