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.

Perhaps, friend,

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.

Perhaps, someday,

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.