The brass is warm from the friction of my hand

The brass is warm from the friction of my hand,

a dull heat blooming where the metal meets the wood.

I check the bolt again because I can't understand

how to trust a thing I’ve already understood.

My thumb is raw, the skin worn down to a sting,

from the back-and-forth rattle of the latch.

It’s a hollow habit, a small and desperate thing,

like trying to light a damp and broken match.

I stand in the hallway and listen for a sound,

waiting for the click to tell me I’m okay.

But the silence is heavy and the floor is hard ground,

and I’ll probably turn it again before I walk away.