Moss and Metal

Rain drips off the fence, dragging the green paint down

until the rust blooms beneath,

a slow burn in the cold damp.

Fingers trail over chipped edges,

feeling the grit that’s grown in the cracks,

a living wound spreading, slow and steady.

The fence sags under its own age,

droplets gather like forgotten sweat,

settling in knots like old secrets.

I watch the corrosion take its time,

like the way small things rot inside us

when no one is looking.