Bleeding *** with pleasure.

[Do****]

Where edges meet — a silver rim of light,
and the world leans in to listen.
A breath becomes a bell, half-clear, half-broken,
the pulse a metronome counting the fault lines.

A sting like winter sunlight on the tongue,
a warmth that draws its line and then steps over.
Thorns learn the shape of bloom; salt learns the shape of honey—
neither conquers, both translate meaning.

Hands map the geography of a willing skin,
tracing cartographies of yes and careful pause.
Pleasure, a slow translation of sharp into song,
***, a language someone taught you to read.

Between inhale and fall, the shadows settle soft,
and the heart, mischievous, keeps both its scars and smiles.
They mingle quietly, like rain with the road —
not one erasing the other, but making a new way home.