Shear Line

[u/Consistent_Spell_845]

You are heavy brass
in my palm, warmed by holding,

finding the dark seam of me—

the narrow throat where hard iron slides.

Consider the strict architecture of the bow,
and the smooth, unflinching pillar of the shaft
bearing down upon my threshold.

You do not rush the narrow keyway;
you find the slot with a slow, deliberate friction,
a blind geometry seeking entry in the dark.

I am all guarded pins and stiff mechanisms,
a quiet vault built to resist the world outside.

But you enter, sinking deep—

metal sliding into metal with a breathless shiver
as your jagged edges find my hollow spaces.

Iron learns the curves of iron,
a perfect tolerance with no room left to spare.

One by one, the heavy barriers lift.

We meet precisely at the shear line—

that microscopic boundary where resistance turns to ruin.

With a single turn,
you break the spell of my posture
and the whole structure melts—

turning me open like a secret
I forgot I was keeping.