After Hours: My Attic Room- Christine Ray

You and me in my attic bedroom in Somerville.  Green and tan striped wallpaper inexpertly hung on deeply slanted walls.  Futon on the floor, the smell of warm cedar, window fan lazily stirring the air.  Dust particles floating suspended in golden light that falls across the hardwood floor in a diagonal.  Your eyes the bluest I have ever seen.  Your skin so pale it is almost translucent. Your short hair black and curly, surprisingly silky to my touch.  Your mint fresh breath against my mouth as if you could breathe for both of us.  We try to stay away from each other but we are the drug the other is always craving, we are the hum in each other’s blood. You don’t tell me how you explain your absence from home and I don’t ask—you are the only thing that makes me feel alive.  Your soft breasts visible under ribbed white men’s undershirt that sticks to your skin with summer sweat. You  twist your fingers in the belt loops of my shorts, pulling my hips closer to yours.  Our mouths always hungry, our bodies straining to meld into each other through layers of thin cotton. We are liquid fire in each other’s arms.  The feel of my hands tangled in your hair, the hitch in your breath when I trace your throat with my lips.  We tell ourselves that it is just kissing, that as long as our shirts and shorts are on this is not an affair.  We rationalize this wildfire passion to ourselves, to each other, even when we arch our bodies into each other, even when you give me your gentle and your fierce, even when you call in the middle of the night to say that you can not stop thinking about me, that you can’t live without my apricot kiss.


© 2017 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All rights Reserved




deep within

her female sense

unraveling tangles

of knotted defense

undoing time

stopped by

her own heart

every fortitude

slipping from her soul

desire for him


than any of her wills


I Became His Art

his hands masculine

It was his hands

masculine masterpieces

art creating art

out of a body called me

palms smoothing curves and mounds

kneading firmly every side

fingertips drawing designs of need

in hollows calling his artistry

nails scratching erotic lines

on bare skin canvass

lines only the most sensual artists


It was his hands

creating a lover

out of me




The Path I Crave


Trickle of water

slowly inching

down her neck

to a path

between her breasts


I watch…


filling me


that water particle

traces a path

I haven’t dared

yet am desperate

to follow


It slides now

across her belly

her hips rise


ever so slowly

then rest


the droplet


ever so seductively


into the depths

of where I need

to know her



strangling me

until I can breathe

no more



Ph-Google Images


Stealing Her Fire

Liquor and Lies

We swam through the night

in liquor and lies


to the outside world

imbibing in each other

without moral conscience

our truth

all that mattered

we were not a lie together

but tomorrow

would be