Riley welch is a poet from texas living in colorado. She posts three original poems a week. 


I feel this aching,
usually it starts in my middle, 
but sometimes it works out to my arms. 

I thought it was muscles,
then I thought it was bones,
then I thought maybe it could be the blood running through me.

Perhaps turning thicker and thicker until it can't sludge through my narrow veins. 

But the story here, 
is about the aching. 
Which I now know is not tied to the body,
but instead my mind. 

Sometimes I fold my entire body in half to try to stretch out the pain. 
But, I can't. 

It roots itself in a longing that will not come to resolve anytime soon. 
If it did, it would be in the form of a perfect March day, 
or perhaps a completely melted ice cream cone,
or a rhythmic metronome whose tone is neither musical nor mechanical but becomes both after the third hour of it's beat. 

Sometimes I twist my ankles out to see if that could be the cure.
And then twist them back in. Over and over. 
Or I run a distance I've never approached before. 
Or, with both sweat and tears streaming down my face find I find that I cannot extend my arm another inch. 

As previously stated, none of these things work.
But all of them seem to get me, maybe, 
the slightest bit closer. 

Riley Welch



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