Aches

Sometimes the best feelings are aches.

A pain is sharp and penetrates like a knife.
An ache starts from the inside and captures every bit of flesh, like a dull expansion and inflation that massages my heart.
An ache can be the most hurtful beauty ever felt. It's a cruel passion that demands my every experience.
Aches are born from memories. But this kind of ache can not hurt so well without love.

Love is the bottle that feeds the ache, until it grows so strong that it pushes out tears from my eyes and chokes up the oxygen from my lungs.
It's the memory reels that I play behind my eyes. It's my father's smile, my friends' laughs, my lover's embrace.
Born out of a song, or a smell, or my husband's eyes -- I ache.

I take a hard swallow that lasts longer than usual.
It's a deep-ached, quivering swallow, because I'm forced to digest every bit of love I've ever known, every sweet memory, every kind deed, every blessing, every compliment, every kiss, everything I never deserved, every peaceful moment, every breath taken by every person I've ever loved.

That's the perfect ache: The unswallowable, iron-clad, love-laced earth in my throat.