I am a key. Not the key that turns a common lock, but the key that opens the drawer where photographs sleep. You use me in the slow ritual of turning tumblers — a quarter turn, another — and the smell of dust and vanilla rises like a memory. Dainty keys fit small locks on travel trunks; wilder keys are jagged, worn by hands that have wandered. Exclusive: a single key opens a chosen cabinet, a confidante kept inside: letters tied with twine, a concert ticket, a pressed moth wing. When you use me, you admit a past into the light.
XIII. You have me. You use me. Dainty, wilder, exclusive. you have me you use me dainty wilder exclusive
XI. You have me. You use me. Dainty, wilder, exclusive. I am a key