𝐼. 𝐼𝓃𝓀 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝐼

The pen trembles between my fingers,

a quiet thing with too much to say.

It bleeds onto the page, not in words,

but in the spaces where I hesitate.

I watch the ink pool,

spreading like a secret whispered too loud.

It does not ask if I am ready,

only if I am willing.

Somewhere in the pauses, I find myself—

not in the letters, not in the lines,

but in the weight of what I cannot write,

what I cannot bring myself to erase.

The page does not judge,

does not beg for perfection.

It only waits, silent and patient,

for me to begin again

- R.E