There is an ache that folds
like paper
soaked through,
crumpled in the cold,
collapsing
centre
of me.

With nothing more than a whisper,
it returns,
as if just moments before
I suffered this mortal injury.

Its power unbound—
ready to consume me
if I let it.

Some days,
I beg this ache to vanish,
leave me hollow, free.

It guards me from healing,
a quiet, faithful dog,
licking old wounds
to keep them open.

I sink into this quicksand of memory,
then fossilize in grief’s amber—
trapped, not treasured.

How can I let it go,
when its grip
is all I have known?

And yet, I breathe it still,
not by choice,
but because forgetting
would mean losing the last of it.

I move through sorrow’s veil,
a torn page curling on wind,
almost-free.