What I Left Behind

The rust started small,

a fleck of color where the metal caught the light wrong.

I didn't notice it at first.

Or I noticed it and didn't care.

But yesterday when I picked it up,

my hands came away red.

Not blood red.

Older red.

The red of things breaking down,

of time making its claim,

of the metal giving up.

The flakes come off on my skin

like the tool is shedding itself,

like it's dissolving into dust

and I'm just now paying attention.

How long has it been like this?

How many times did I reach for it

and not see the color spreading,

the surface becoming something else,

something fragile and wrong?

I wipe my hands on my jeans,

leaving the red behind,

evidence of the thing I wasn't watching.

The tool sits on the shelf,

still dissolving,

still becoming rust,

still waiting for me to notice.