Ache #1

Ache

I breathe, but it feels so thin,
Like the air forgot where it’s been.
I smile, but it doesn’t stay,
Just a mask I wear for the day.

No one sees what’s underneath,
A storm that never learned to speak...

This is the ache — slow and deep,
The kind of pain you learn to keep.
No screaming out, no shattered glass,
Just moments that quietly pass.
This is the ache — soft as rain,
Falling in a world of pain.
I carry it with every breath I take…
This hollow heart,
This quiet ache.

I still hear your voice at night,
In the echoes between wrong and right.
I reach for you in empty air,
But all I find is no one there.

It’s not goodbye, not quite regret,
It’s everything I can’t forget…

This is the ache — not loud, not wild,
Just a cry from an unloved child.
No open wound, no clear goodbye,
Just the question: “Why not try?”
This is the ache — the silent kind,
That lingers where you’ve left behind.
You’re gone, but still I break…
Under the weight
Of this ache.

And I don’t ask for you to come,
I just wish the ache would numb.
But it stays like skin, like breath,
A part of me, even in death...

This is the ache — it doesn’t heal,
It’s how I know you were real.
You left, but left a piece to take…
And now I live
With this ache.