After the Key Broke

After the Key Broke

It snapped like a tired sentence—

Half of it is still inside

the mouth of the lock.

I held the other half dumbly,

a small metal moon

with no orbit to speak of.

The door pretended innocence.

Its paint remembered fingerprints

but not mine.

I tried the usual rituals:

breath against wood,

eye to the seam for light,

the slow apology of my forehead

on the frame.

Inside, the room made

It's ordinary weather—

a clock practicing rescue,

a plant angling toward the sun

It couldn’t see yet.

I found a paperclip,

bent it into faith;

a hairpin; a card;

the miracle tools

of people who go on.

Nothing yielded—

and then, everything did:

Not the lock,

But the idea that doors

have only one answer.

So I stepped back,

counted the windows,

the hinges, the fact

that the walls are only patient

When you agree to be kept.

I learned the hinge-song,

unscrewed a little future

from each stubborn circle,

made an opening wide enough

for a name to pass through.

On the floor, the broken key

glinted like an old reason.

I left it there,

a souvenir of single ways.

When I finally crossed the threshold,

The room didn’t cheer.

It simply met me—

light taking my outline,

air making room for my breath.

Later, I wore the broken half

on a thread around my neck,

not as a door’s servant,

but as a compass that points

to whatever opens.