The Silence Behind the Lock

Cold metal pressed against my palm,

a lock rusted slow as time forgets.

I turn the dial,

tumblers click in empty rhythms,

a puzzle with no answer,

memory held tight behind iron lips.

Light slants in—a narrow beam

casts a crooked shadow

like a secret I cannot reach.

The lock waits,

a weight anchored to the cracked floor,

a silence that smells like lost keys,

and the slow, slow slipping of years.

No numbers remembered,

no soft click

of opening—just cold,

and stillness,

like a thing that never will.