The Weight of Amber

The brooch rests heavy, warm,

like a bruise beneath my skin,

smoothed by years of careless hands

and afternoons folding light into dust.

A golden trap, caught in time’s thick gum,

muddied by shadows and spilled tea,

the color of a sunset's slow bleed,

a wound stitched shut beneath a veil of quiet.

It catches the light—flaws and all—

a jagged piece of someone’s yesterday,

a burden pressed into my palm,

the hush between clocks ticking too loud.

I hold it like a secret too old to speak,

its weight a pulse that doesn’t quit—

a memory carved from hardened sap,

holding me hostage in amber’s grip.