Editing poetry: A miniature treatise on aching

A long time ago I had a project with C to write an alphabet of treatises. I think this may be the closest that I got to completing one. I was probably reading lots of Anne Carson when I wrote this.

What can be said about aching
That has not been said? (It is a twitch that lasts all day; it leaves you poised at the beginning of a breath, at the crest of a wave.)
Aching is longing for something
That is never close enough unless it is touching you.
No. That is a fallacy.
Unless it is wrapped around you.

Aching means never sleep (eyes). Use no pins (fingers). Lie very still and stare (eyes). Be helpless. Cry. Read. Search for music under floorboards. Cease to Function. Aching is lack of function (eyes).

Aching can see.
It knows, when the achers are wrapped around (in acres of silk, lovers, archers),
That soon, inevitably, they will be unwrapped, ripped apart along the seam, and the ache will begin again.

Aching slows time (beginning to live in increments of the past).
Aching bleeds colour from the world (aching is the absence of all colour, but is not black).
Aching leaves you outside,
In winter,
With no scarf.
With liquid eyes.

via Editing poetry: A miniature treatise on aching.

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