The Sacred Ache Where Tenderness Breaks

I inhale…

  The ache rises before the air.

Slow.

  Deliberate.

Each heartbeat presses against the walls of myself.

  I grind inward,

   friction of longing against longing unreturned,

   a motion without release.

I taste the weight of devotion unshared.

  Bitter.

  Sweet.

  Necessary.

I fold into the quiet…

  I breathe…

   Slow.

   Slow.

   Slow…

As if the rhythm itself might hold me together.

The world moves on, oblivious…

  I exist here,

   kneaded,

   sifted,

   pressed

  by the gravity of what I feel.

Alone in this threshing-floor,

  raw and sacred,

  ground into the possibility of love

  even when love is not mirrored.

Embers of desire trace the curves of my ribs.

  Bones remembering the ache.

  Stars trembling in the hollow of my chest.

Air lingering in my throat…

  a pulse I cannot release.

Rivers of longing wind through me,

  silent,

  relentless,

  unnamed.

I exhale…

  Not release.

  Not surrender.

  But remembrance.

  Devotion.

The slow, sacred endurance

  of surviving the intensity

   of my own heart.

Reviews

[DavidGeo]

This poem makes me want to be a good friend of myself. For self empowerment reasons mostly.

[Curly Grace]

If it stirred even a small tenderness toward your own heart, that feels like the truest thing. Thank you for reading.

[DavidGeo]

Your name makes me chuckle for some reason

[Curly Grace]

;) wink, why is that?

[DavidGeo]

Grace with respect to humans is not a straight line. Morality, if it were hair, would be curly.

[Curly Grace]

I shall give you Curls, would that suffice?

[DavidGeo]

Fair enough.

[DavidGeo]

I appreciate the grace

[Curly Grace]

Enough Grace?

[DavidGeo]

I could never have enough grace

[Curly Grace]

Enough grace? I can always pour a little more.