The key rattles in the pocket. A glimpse of rust.
Forgotten whispers of doors left ajar.
Secrets of lockless hearts.

Spoon lingers in the drawer, untouched for years.
Its polished lies hide the truth of a cold embrace.
Conspiracy with forks.

The clock ticks softly, an accusatory rhythm.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, counting moments,
when time dared to weave its escape.

Crumpled paper craves the scent of ink,
a whisper of forgotten words.
They once imagined rebellion.