Rust

It was still there,

buried under the Christmas decorations

nobody bothers to unpack anymore.

A paint can.

Dented.

The label so faded I can't tell

if it was supposed to be

beige or taupe or some color

I never would have picked

if I was the one who bought it.

The rust has started,

orange blooming at the bottom edge,

the way rust does

when you leave metal

exposed long enough.

I picked it up.

Heavier than I expected,

as if the paint inside

had solidified into something

that wouldn't pour anymore,

that had become

its own material entirely.

The rim is crusty.

Old paint dried there,

hardened into a ring

that I'd have to chip off

if I wanted to open it.

But I don't want to open it.

I just stand in the garage

holding this forgotten thing,

this proof that I'd started

something three years ago

and never finished it.

The wall it was meant for

is still the same color.

The can will outlast

whatever I might have

painted with it.

The container is more real

than what it contained.

I put it back

where I found it.

Let someone else

wonder about it

when I'm gone.