The Pocket Weight

That coin fell soft against the floor,

a dented piece I can't ignore.

A year of days, its silver worn,

pressed deep in denim, weathered, torn.

No gold, no gloss, just quiet heft,

a token of all else I left.

Its weight was light but lingered long,

a tiny anchor, muted, wrong.

I held it close, uncounted times,

a silent witness to my crimes.

Now scattered sun pulls at its face,

reminding me of lost embrace.

What did I carry, what was kept?

The weight of something silently slept.