The Divine Ache

Photo byPawel CzerwinskionUnsplash

Is it pain, or is it the longing for you?
Whatever it is, it’s constant,
a pulse that never dims,
like the hum of old neon in forgotten alleys,
or the scrape of a pen that never stops
carving shadows into paper.

To forget, I wandered,
from pubs to churches,
in smoky rooms and silent pews,
sought comfort in beauty,
lost myself in bodies,
took refuge in art, in creation,
bleeding out pieces of myself
onto canvas, into verse—
but nothing—nothing could blunt this edge.

Is this the ache that made the world?
A shard of divinity,
a heartbeat cracked and poured into the void.
Perhaps creation itself
was God’s own catharsis,
each brushstroke a sigh,
each word a whispered release,
and we—
we’re living in the echo
of that endless ache,
a masterpiece painted in longing,
a sculpture hewn from sorrow’s hands.