The Weight of Metal

The dog tag slips from fingers stiff with dust—

cold metal pressed between folds of faded cloth.

Faint letters scrape like bones beneath the skin,

etched dull from years buried under silence.

It catches light that slips through cracked closet doors,

a ghost of a name, an echo of a breath,

weighed down by the quiet in the room,

the space where voices once lived, now just grit.

I hold it close and it presses hard,

a stubborn pulse that won’t forget the skin,

pressing cold against the beat of my palm—

the weight of metal heavier than memory.