Weekends consisting of nights in and studying. Poetry specifically. But the smell, the air, all of it scraping my lungs with the aching cold. Ache is the perfect word for what my world feels [tastes, smells, sounds] like in the fall.
The ache of marriage:
thigh and tongue, beloved,
are heavy with it,
it throbs in the teeth
We look for communion
and are turned away, beloved,
each and each
It is leviathan and we
in its belly
looking for joy, some joy
not to be known outside it
two by two in the ark of
the ache of it.