Theft's Small Truths

That photo I found, corners worn with time,

a snapshot of mischief and my youthful crime,

cradling a keychain, vibrant and small,

slipped from the shelf—did I really want it at all?

Heart pounding loudly, nerves racing and thin,

that stolen moment, oh where do I begin?

it felt like a treasure, though guilt had its weight,

ownership borrowed, wrapped up in fate.

I remember that thrill, the rush like a flame,

shame tangling tightly with excitement, the same—

a piece of plastic with a smile that's cracked,

yet it still glimmers, that story intact.