The Gate That Forgot to Close

The fence sags beneath a sun too tired to care,

rust creeping like dry skin across galvanized bones.

My fingers press the hinge — groan — a bitter sound,

half-forgotten, like a voice lost in a crowded room.

Orange flakes fall, brittle as old promises,

a gate that forgot to close, or maybe just gave up.

It holds nothing but the weight of wind and waiting,

and the silence of things breaking slow

under afternoon heat.

The rust stains bleed into the dirt,

a map of neglect I can’t stop tracing,

a border between what was and what is rusted through.