Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Christine Ely Aug 12
romantic is the low light on camera film in the dark
and painless bruises on the neck
when lovers leave their mark
I’ve read enough to realize when their lives could be a movie,
Because I wished, and I watched, like the spectator at a film,
But difference lies in subtle ties between them and their title:
Mine’s written, theirs directed, and
I
Finally see the romance in my story again.

The author breathes her life again,
my God with pen-to-page,
I used to want a movie but that was before I aged,
Today’s contentment rides with my head out the window,
With downtown organic cafes and long skirts, and long stays,
Your mouth and your arms and your tight hiking pants,
When you bake me some chickpeas and in the kitchen we dance,
For our story feels,
Not watches,
Content-
And elated,
and in awe,
Finally? I don’t imagine this city is a set.
Christine Ely Aug 12
ive slept a year,
or two, maybe,
My eyes pinched shut from pressure;
The outside world confined to dim
lightbulbs in my future-
Normalcy a hope for me, but hope dismissed by day,
You comfort me among the stars when
it’s still right to pray.
A “cold fish”, “****** façade” and this prompts me to laughter,
For in by arms you’re nothing else but soft and sweet and tender,
So I’ll lay with you at night even when normalcy returns.
We’ll pray into each other’s mouths
Without regret the morning after.
Christine Ely Mar 11
without being irrevocably changed.

How dare you try to resurrect the dead,
it's gone and we've mourned and it isn't the same,
It seems a cruel trick to bring it half-back
just to force us through grief as it dies slowly again.
I remove myself in a way I never thought I would,
imagine I mourned only once and can really move on,
We're all different from grieving a full year ago.
Priorities change, but admin seems slow.
You cannot restore what I missed twelve months past.
It's a whole lot of nostalgia and a pain in the ***--
It's transformed and it's warped
from what it could have been.
The hopes that we had that were snapped and stretched thin.
Let the people rest, we're tired of change.
We're weary and ready to sit by the grave.
i am covered in spots of pain
Raised patches
like the waves in my brain
picking away
at what makes me Me
and like my mind I don't yet want it
I wish my skin were flat as a child's
I wish my brain were thin.
Bay
The man
who kept
his emotions
at bay
drowned
in them
all
one
winters
day
and now you've arrived,
I yearned and I yearned and I struggled to thrive;
Now that you're here I am still where I've been.
But no longer alone, and for something to live--

I find myself still awash in the feeling of loss.
Of things trivial, inconsequential, nebulous, and wrong--
Almost as if I wish to remember the ache.
I went from aching to know you
to aching to see you sooner.

Come see me sooner.

You're twelve miles away and it feels awful far.
A weekend commute and
crying alone in my car.
I weep at leaving you,
of losing the feeling of being alive,
Until next weekend when I regain you again--
I'm a moth to your light.
I'm afraid to admit that I live so much of my life in you.
Next page