There's an aching here now.
In the cavity of the chest.
Deep.
It surrounds the anatomical heart, but bows out posteriorly toward the back like a bowl.
A reservoir. Already filled, then slowly overflowing with honey-thick emptiness.
It is viscous.
It is fresh, yet familiar.
It's an active, moving, sweet agony that requires no explanation.
No label.
No source.
No reason to be as it is.
It is flowing here as an anguishing invitation for supportive attention.
It is silently, thickly begging to feel the radiant, white light of loving compassion.
It is pleading for physical assurances of connected safety. For the grounded pressure of a warm palm against the skin and bone of the chest.
This aching is here now.
It is being met, welcomed, attended to, and embraced as a noble guest.
Even if it seems like it's leaving a desperately sticky mess.
But who knows what will arise in its wake?