It wasn’t your touch that stayed with me—
it was the ache beneath it,
the quiet shiver your name left in my mouth,
the way it still rises like heat
at the edges of my breath.
Desire doesn’t die once it’s woken.
It settles in the hollow beneath the ribs,
patient as a shadow,
breathing for you
in the moments you pretend you’ve moved on.
Some hungers refuse to fade.
They deepen—
slowly,
silently,
with the weight of something that knows
it will be needed again.
There are fires that never burn out.
They wait—
steady,
unrushed,
alive beneath the ash.
A reminder that what was awakened in me
did not pass.
It learned to stay.
It learned my name.
And it learned how to burn
without ever asking permission.
Reading Trauma Mama: Velvet & Taboo 