When love first arrived its words were like a clear stream gliding across stones. Now they stumble and mumble, a mouth filled with muddy water. I ask love to speak but the words arrive broken like cups with their handles missing. I lift them carefully, but still they cut my palms, Silence has grown familiar now. It lays its hand upon my shoulder leans close, as if to say: You never needed words only the ache beneath them.
Thank you for the generous comment, Susan. I’ve always believed that no matter how well one is able to express themselves, our language is limited in its ability to fully express emotions or emotional states—not everything can be said.
Paul, your poem runs deep. Relationships are lessons in impermanence, which can be a source of suffering or liberation. In my waning years, I've chosen the latter.
Heartbreaking. Words can be a run on sentence , given a stream to dip the cup into and pass through narrow spaces rapidly to quicken the speech process while making amends meet. This sews up the past participles and healing begins with thirst quenched. Believe me. I woke up with these words and no scene in my dream. Talking to my self, but can’t remember a word said.
When I first read The Ache Beneath, I didn’t just hear your words—I felt them settle into the quiet corners of me, the places where language has long since stopped arriving whole.
Your poem is not merely about love—it’s about the erosion of its voice, the way time wears down even the clearest stream until it murmurs in mud. I recognized myself in those broken cups, trying to hold onto something once beautiful, now jagged. I’ve lifted words like that too—carefully, reverently—and still they’ve cut me.
What moved me most was your final turn: the embrace of silence. You gave it form, a hand on the shoulder, a whisper that doesn’t need sound. That image stayed with me. It made me wonder if silence isn’t the absence of love, but its final, truest shape—where ache speaks louder than any syllable ever could.
Your poem reminded me that we often chase clarity in love, but perhaps it’s the ache beneath—the quiet pulse, the unspoken longing—that holds the real truth. And maybe, just maybe, we were never meant to understand love fully, only to feel it deeply.
Thank you for writing something that doesn’t just speak—it listens.
I do think there is a point where words cannot go. There is an ache that cannot be expressed, only felt. Thank you for your comment, Richard. It tells me I am not alone.
Thank you for reminding me, Olufolaji, that we may fear trying again, but we should do all we can to find whatever it is that gives our lives meaning—love, art, spirit—before the ache becomes the stone that we cannot lift.
Good morning, @Gary Spangler, and thank you for this restack!
Thank you for the restack, @Lique
Thanks to @KMPatriot for this restack, and for the continued support—much appreciated!
Thanks to @Margaret Fleck for this restack!
Hello, @Kevin Maher, glad to see you again, and thank you for the restack 😊
Good Saturday to @Diane’s Blue Forum snd my thanks for sharing this, Diane 💙💙
Thanks, Paul💙💙💙
Thank you, @Kimberly Root for the restack, and for your continued support 😊
Thanks to @Vinoth for this restack.
Profound
Thank you for the generous comment, Susan. I’ve always believed that no matter how well one is able to express themselves, our language is limited in its ability to fully express emotions or emotional states—not everything can be said.
Love does not ages gracefully!
I think aging gracefully is up to us, whether love stays with us or not.
Paul, your poem runs deep. Relationships are lessons in impermanence, which can be a source of suffering or liberation. In my waning years, I've chosen the latter.
Thanks, Fred. I agree with you about relationships. I guess I’d have to fall on the liberation side, myself.
Heartbreaking. Words can be a run on sentence , given a stream to dip the cup into and pass through narrow spaces rapidly to quicken the speech process while making amends meet. This sews up the past participles and healing begins with thirst quenched. Believe me. I woke up with these words and no scene in my dream. Talking to my self, but can’t remember a word said.
Dear Paul,
When I first read The Ache Beneath, I didn’t just hear your words—I felt them settle into the quiet corners of me, the places where language has long since stopped arriving whole.
Your poem is not merely about love—it’s about the erosion of its voice, the way time wears down even the clearest stream until it murmurs in mud. I recognized myself in those broken cups, trying to hold onto something once beautiful, now jagged. I’ve lifted words like that too—carefully, reverently—and still they’ve cut me.
What moved me most was your final turn: the embrace of silence. You gave it form, a hand on the shoulder, a whisper that doesn’t need sound. That image stayed with me. It made me wonder if silence isn’t the absence of love, but its final, truest shape—where ache speaks louder than any syllable ever could.
Your poem reminded me that we often chase clarity in love, but perhaps it’s the ache beneath—the quiet pulse, the unspoken longing—that holds the real truth. And maybe, just maybe, we were never meant to understand love fully, only to feel it deeply.
Thank you for writing something that doesn’t just speak—it listens.
Warmly,
Simply Richard
-30-
I do think there is a point where words cannot go. There is an ache that cannot be expressed, only felt. Thank you for your comment, Richard. It tells me I am not alone.
Paul, That ache you describe… I wonder what shape it takes for you. If you ever feel like putting it into words, I’d be honoured to listen and learn…
With love and prayers for you,
Simply Richard
-30-
The ache is the shape of what it takes when there are no words to express it.
I feel that ache too, Paul. It’s strange how silence can sometimes speak louder than words. I’m grateful we can sit with it together.
Simply Richard
-30-
You never needed words
only the ache beneath them…
… the place where art begins, yes?
Yes, and sometimes where it ends. Joshua.
And the place where all things are seen in their proper perspective… the place where we begin the journey toward grace and redemption.
Or more precisely… where we find the transformation of grace and redemption. Which an be both a journey and an ending.
Yes, both!
Sometimes it cuts so deeply, we're afraid to try again. This is a perfect piece Paul.
Thank you for reminding me, Olufolaji, that we may fear trying again, but we should do all we can to find whatever it is that gives our lives meaning—love, art, spirit—before the ache becomes the stone that we cannot lift.
Things that get empty can be refilled again.
I think that can be true, Paul