I have always been able
to describe the ache—
the ache in my shoulders from sitting too long,
the ache in my eyes from crying too much,
the ache in my heart from missing you,
the ache in my hands
from holding the cry of my knotted heart.
An ache to create,
to reflect my Maker;
to befriend the words of poetry
and craft the thoughts of beauty.
To understand the seams
of every stitched emotion set in place.
But this nameless ache you feel—
dear, I feel it too.
You hold the cry I know too well,
sewn to creases of your palms and heart.
I know the questions that haunt your mind:
where is the poetry
in words that bear that burning ache,
and where is the beauty
in the emptiness they echo?
Where am I
when the ache I cannot name
has consumed me whole?
I have not felt every kind of ache
this world has to offer,
and, my dear, neither have you.
But the ones I have,
I have felt to their deepest core.
The ache that creeps along
two years after forgotten tragedy.
The ache that plots an ambush
when you swore you’d left it behind.
The ache that taunts for endless months
and forbids you to describe it.
There are some explanations—
loss is a thief that does not leave,
and perhaps there is more to the grief
than simple pain.
You have tried to be a crutch for the world,
and you are tired; I understand.
You have turned every ache over and over in your hands,
finding every crevice
as your fingerprints replaced every seed of dust.
It is wearisome work,
but, darling, it is not all necessary.
I never thought
I’d be writing about an ache that holds no words,
yet here I am, pen in hand
and something in my chest I cannot place.
This wordless ache is beyond my grasp,
and you know because you feel it too.
But perhaps, dear,
that is how it wishes to remain.
we will understand it in time.
I may not be a friend of every beautiful word,
of every piece of poetry to drip through my pen.
But as the silent aches
filter through my pages,
I wish to understand them.
I wish to be their friend.
with every scratch of draining pen
and every drip of bleeding pain,
they will teach me their language.
And perhaps, love,
if you take my hand,
you will understand it too.
Cindy Green is a forest-wandering, poetry-scribbling stargazer with messy notebooks and messy thoughts. Despite her love for all of God’s creation, sunflowers and stars in particular have a way of sneaking into both her writing and her heart (but you won’t hear her complaining about it). She is an amateur sword-wielder with a Highland-dancing warrior spirit who also writes letters to the moon and considers the sky her best friend. A focused daydreamer, organized pack rat, and oblivious observer, she is a self-professing ambivert (or a living contradiction) who deeply feels both the beauty and fallen state of the world. Through her words, she hopes to describe the indescribable and form personal connections with people while reflecting a love for her Savior and a passion for everything she touches.