The Inches Lie

Pulled it from the junk drawer, a yellowed snake,

coiled around a key, for goodness sake,

rusty teeth, a dull, forgotten bite.

The tape, all soft, not plastic, but still tight

with memory, the fabric worn and thin.

I ran my thumb along, where numbers had been,

ghosts of inches, half-erased by time.

What did we measure? A promise? A climb?

The width of a door, a waistline's slow expand?

The space between a thought, and a hand?

It felt like it held every length, every fall,

a map of small defeats, or nothing at all.

How many times did we stretch it out flat,

trying to pin down exactly where we're at?

It lies, this tape, with its faded, honest truth,

about the changing shape of age and youth.

And the key, still locked around its supple spine,

never found the door it was meant to align.