image from stockcake.com
poem submitted to "1449 March Posted Poems" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The keys are still. No clatter, no chime~ just dust in the cracks where my fingers once climbed. It remembers the weight of a story half-born, the click-clack of hope in the cold before dawn. But now it’s a relic, a tomb made of steel, holding the ghosts of the things I might feel. The E sticks a little—left thirsty too long, the W whispers wait, but the moment is gone. I brush off the grime like a guilt I can’t name. The carriage return gives a sigh just the same. What if I press it? Just once, just to see if the letters still bleed what they used to be.
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