Touch Forbidden

Rust flakes under my shaking palm,

cold metal rough, a sudden calm.

I shouldn’t touch, but fingers stray—

a sharp regret that won’t give way.

The door handle crumbles, pocked and old,

a silent story quietly told.

A fingerprint pressed in fading rust,

a mark of me where I mistrust.

Instant prick of wrong, a crack,

a ghostly shiver down the back.

The metal bites a crooked grin,

a stain that settles deep within.