Key that Breathes

Inside a lost key, memory breathes,
a breath of metal holding shadow.
It doesn’t fade, it pulses in the darkness of time.
It recalls nothing of what it opens, only the cold that vibrates,
tiny engravings on the surface that is silent.
Every beat is a door without a name.
The key seeks invisible doors, without number or face,
running through corridors of silence and cold air.
The breath makes a lock tremble without a voice.
Who knows if opening is listening, not gesture,
if time answers to the breath that remains.
Memory, though lost, continues to breathe within itself.