The Loose Grip

The copper knob turns too far—

just a flick, a tremble in my palm.

It catches on the cracked paint,

spins past the place it should hold.

Heavy bags pull me forward,

but the door resists, uncertain.

The wobble hums under my fingers,

a tiny revolt beneath the wood.

I lean in, the weight of days

pressed against the splintered frame.

A stubborn looseness, slow decay,

a hinge undone that won't relent.

Hands shake slightly as I push,

a quiet warning from this fragile knot,

the moment where grip slips,

and nothing seals like it once did.