The Unpaid Trinket

Past the hardware store, the plastic gleam

of keychains, hung in rows so neat.

And suddenly, it's not a dream,

but a memory, bitter and sweet.

Twelve years old, my fingers quick,

the blue one, smooth, slipped in my hand.

My heart a drum, a nervous tick,

as I walked out, across the land

of innocence. No alarm, no chase,

just the cool plastic, safe inside.

No one saw, no single trace.

Just a secret, where it could hide.

And sometimes still, the feeling starts,

that tiny weight, that easy win.

Unpaid, it settled in my heart.

Where does a small theft truly begin?