Cold Weight of Brass

Fingers brush the toolbox edge,

metal cold, unforgiving.

A brass key, heavy and worn,

rough scratches like forgotten paths.

It slips into my palm,

a weight I didn’t expect,

chill pulling through skin,

sparking old stories, old locks.

The light catches the dents,

shadows pooling in each scratch.

Cold weight presses down,

a silence thicker than dust.

I hold it briefly,

wondering what doors it opened,

what it kept closed,

before setting it down

and letting the cold stay behind.