There is a way to write

There is a way to write,
as if the fabric starts to slide,
A shoulder bare,
the breath inside

There is a way to write,
as skin, soft-veiled,
glides like silk
along the grain of the page,
slow reveal.

There is a way to write,
when tender parts open,
when pink flesh shows,
edges rimmed in red,

and still—
you press it to the page.

There is a way to hold this pen,
like gauze on flame,
like trembling hands
above an old, unspoken name.

It’s been too long.
It will burn.
It will hurt.

Still—
you write.