The stubborn drawer

I pull the handle, it grates against wood,

a late-night search for something long understood.

Fingers sticky with dust, they dance on the frame,

but still, the drawer holds back,

like a memory reluctant to name.

I hear the creak echo, an argument fought,

between need and neglect, in the chaos I've wrought.

Splintered edges catch light,

reminding me how often I miss what's inside—

all the pieces I fear,

and the ones that I've tried.