It's Still Life

The Hinge That Forgot Its Door

A hinge without a door
still turns,

not freely,
not fully,
but enough to remember.

Two plates,
a pin worn thin,
holding to a purpose
that no longer exists.

It opens into nothing.

Again.
Again.

A motion rehearsed
long after the meaning
has gone.

Wind finds it
and it answers,
a small, obedient shudder,

as if something unseen
still passes through,
as if absence itself
had weight.

There is no door.
No frame.
No hand to close it.

Only this:

the body remembering
what it was for,

and unable
to stop.