Ellie Belanger Nov 2017

between two things which make sense, in and of themselves.
The hollow space between makes little sense.
That is why it is hollow.

Ellie Belanger Nov 2017

Tonight I will do many various things;
I will fold warm laundry
And go eat tacos with a friend of a friend.
I will drink a beer and go drive
my sad and rickety car.
I will scream your name
When I am meant to
Somewhere deep in a song
Because my soul is aching,
Pouring forth always for the hope of love
Like the love I feel for you.

Tonight I will do many various things.
But I will not stop loving you.

Ellie Belanger Oct 2017

The lines of distinction wear thin.
Where does the wave of influence stop and I begin
and where does my own wave begin,
what shore does it hit?
"No man is an island"
said Jon Bon Jovi, in a dream
illustrated by Nick Hornby.
I am no island.
I am no man.
Where does the string end and begin?
everything tangled up in fruitless plans

Ellie Belanger Oct 2017

my cry for help
Sounds like
muffled sobs
against sweat-stained
Pillowcases.

it's hard to root out
Against the click and hum
of the dripping mini-fridge
And the bursts of barking laughter
from downstairs.

Ellie Belanger Oct 2017

Poetry is
extremes.
You never read a poem
filled with middleness.
Even a poem about a
ham sandwich
is either passionately for
or against.

Ellie Belanger Oct 2017

You were always leaving
now you're gone.
Though I am thinking of you,
can't say I miss you,
because I don't.

I don't miss the way you made me feel-
like a fat little bug,
caught squirming in your soda bottle.
I don't miss the way I would wait
for you to miss me
I don't miss the way you disowned me.
I don't miss the time I wasted
wishing you loved me.
I don't miss you.

I regret you.
And now that you are gone,
I am free.

Ellie Belanger Sep 2017

torture-, my dear,
is what I live inside of
everyday.

To know
what it is I feel...
and to also know that I
can do nothing
about it,
nothing to stop it,
nothing to burn it out.

It consumes.

"They" say passion consumes
the Soul like flame to a candle's
wax.

How many souls do I own?

It has been ages
and ages
that I have loved you,
small aeons that look like
magic fireworks when viewed from
afar-
stars bursting or imploding
all manner of greens and reds
blues and yellows-
my God!

I will give you colors.


The waiting is the worst.
Counted time.
Counted exercises and tasks.

It is not a countdown.

"It is not a countdown."

No.
But it is waiting.
Not for him.
No.
For me.

For the things I still need to learn
before him.
For the changes that loom on the horizon.
For the moment
no,
THAT moment
maybe I'll be driving a car,
maybe I'll be lying in my bed, drifting off to sleep,
maybe I'll be mid-sentence in a conversation with a friend,
I don't know.

But I know the moment.
I know how it feels.

It is Archimedes and his fat legs,
overflowing the bathtub,
flooding the bathroom carpets,
Eureka
EUREKA
I have found it!

I remember my last and only
"Eureka!"
and the thing that I had found
was my own, stuttering heart,
beating hard and fast
for you.

Torture is knowing
your happiness
is always
just
out

of



reach

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