Aches are…

aches are

Are fragrant pillows, the day after death,
Wishing you never complained about his mess,
Suit jacket still hanging by your dress,
Heaving breath, mountains sitting on your chest.

Flowers torn from stems tell a different tale,
Than vases who receive them for decor.
The fog cut by an air plane is not as receiving,
As when a bird flaps its wings tree to tree.

Wolves howling at night
Aren’t hungry, nor rabid,
They just miss the splendour of moonlight.

Everything aches, in it’s own way,
But it is almost always because of departure or absence.
Absence does not make the heart grow fonder,
It makes aches, though short in time, feel longer.

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