Time at Touch

Memory becomes wind through the cracks of the abandoned clock,
it slips among rusted plates, whispering minutes that smell of salt.
The dust holds its breath; the clanging fades into a gentle sigh,
and time becomes skin, a cold that pricks the fingers, and memory breathes.
Place your hand on the cold shell, listen to the metal’s breath,
it is a shiver through the fingers, a map of extinguished calendars,
the air carries names of hours past, and time becomes a gentle pressure,
memory, now wind, teaches how to feel time upon the skin.