Forgotten Key

Beneath the dresser, thick with dust and hair,

a rusty key lies curled,

its teeth bent like tired fingers,

resting on a bed of gray and dried leaf.

I reach, fingered shadows scratching ribs—

a sharp jab of pain that pulls me back,

a reminder of a past I forgot to claim,

where things fall and never rise again.

The key doesn’t shine, but it holds a weight,

a heavy silence that stretches between floor and wall,

like the moments caught and lost beneath years,

a tarnished promise, still waiting in the dark.

If I pull it free,

would it open anything,

or just remind me

of the dust I never cleaned?