An old, dull ache
will radiate
from the small of my back,
as though
still carrying a load
past its destination
to the summit of the mountain;
bursting beyond
like clouds
under heavy rainfall.
It stalls,
that pain;
the only gain
from years with you.
It crawls up my bowed back;
a legless, misshapen monster
worming its way slowly
to my zenith;
my brain,
without which
I couldn’t feel pinpricks
or prolonged pain.
Round in circles again;
is pain a memory
or a promise?