Returning Ache

The ache returns with its hands in its pockets.
It sets down its suitcase and hangs its head.
I open the door and say: only for one night,
and only on the couch. There's a nor'easter;  

set down your suitcase inside the storm door.
Don't get any ideas though you've been here 
before. And don't get too comfy on the couch.
Let me have my pot of tea and my quiet.

Don't insinuate the same ideas from before.
I've been trying to reframe the language of hurt
as I inhale the warmth of orange zest and clove.
Perhaps you could fold in half and now be quiet.

In trying to reframe the language of hurt, 
I must stop myself from blaming even you.
Perhaps, folded in half and quiet, you could
lean more toward lightness and away from

those old games of blame and guilt and blame.
I opened the door but insisted: only for one night.
I want to lean more and more into lightness, though
the ache might come back with hands in its pockets.