The Stubborn Cold of Metal

Fingertips meet old brass,

dull, pocked, a ghost of palms long gone.

Cold seeps beneath skin—

a stubborn bite in the rain’s thin breath,

steady tap against cracked glass.

Scratch of metal under fingernail,

a history whispered without words,

weight heavier than I can hold.

This knob won’t warm,

only remind of hands that pressed

and left their chill behind.

Brass does not forget,

only waits.