Faded Engraving

The bottom of the box,

cold cardboard smell.

Old bills, dried-up pens,

then this.

A small, round piece of metal,

heavy, dull silver,

still hooked to a frayed strap

of what was once leather.

It felt cold in my palm,

a weight I remembered

without knowing I did.

The name, etched deep once,

now a shallow valley,

smoothed by countless rubs

against fur, against bone.

The phone number,

a blur of worn digits,

a ghost dial tone.

I ran my thumb

across the flattened letters.

Just a piece of metal,

no warmth, no wag.

Just the silence

of something finished,

lying in my hand.