Cold coin at night

Fingers curl tight around the nickel,

cold and stubborn,

a weight I didn’t expect

in the silence of my jacket pocket.

Concrete cracks swallow the streetlight shadows,

and the coin clinks—sharp,

a sudden note in the night,

a moment frozen in metal.

I turn it over, rough edges

against skin that’s waiting,

not for luck, not for promise,

just the quiet company

of something small and real,

lying heavy

in my palm.