I Keep My Hope in a Rusted Tin Box

I keep my hope in a rusted tin box,
tucked beneath floorboards that creak like old bones.
It’s not polished, not pretty—
just dented metal and faded paint,
a relic from when dreams were still loud.

Inside:
a dried flower from a day that almost felt whole,
a broken compass that still points north sometimes,
a paper star with a wish I can’t remember,
a letter I never sent.

Hope lives there—
quietly, stubbornly.
Not shining, but surviving.
It doesn’t need light,
just space to breathe
between the dust and the dark.

I open it
on days when the sky forgets to be blue,
when my hands forget how to reach.

And though time corrodes the edges,
the contents stay warm,
unspoiled.

Some hope
doesn’t need to shout.
It just needs
a place to wait.