Keys and Quiet

Cold keys slid into my palm,

a weight I didn’t know I’d carry.

The metal clattered,

a small noise in a quiet room,

a sound like a breath held too long.

"Water the plants," you said,

and left with a trust sharp as the winter air.

I stood with the keys,

clinking in rhythm with my heartbeat,

learning how heavy small things could be.

The windows fogged,

and I imagined roots thirsty and waiting,

a silence that demanded more than empty hands.

That night, alone,

I whispered to leaves not my own,

keys jangling like a promise

I was suddenly trying to keep.