Through the Keyhole

I pressed my eye against the brass keyhole and met a silence that almost spoke. Dust floated in its private universe, spinning slow galaxies in the light. At first, I saw nothing; only absence, like a dream already waking. But then the shapes began to breathe: a chair, a coat, a forgotten mirror. And in that mirror; me, younger, unguarded, still believing every door would open if I only knocked long enough. The keyhole narrowed my world to one trembling circle of truth. It framed what I’d lost; not people, not things,but versions of myself I’d locked away for being too tender, too trusting, too alive. I wanted to reach through, to whisper to that ghost of me: Don’t rush to grow hard. Don’t trade wonder for armor. The world won’t hand you keys, but sometimes, that’s mercy; because what’s hidden teaches you to see. When I finally stepped back, the door seemed smaller. The keyhole, infinite. And I understood: we are all peering through our own small openings, seeking glimpses of who we were before the lock was ever turned. the hardest truths about who we are aren’t found in grand revelations, but in small glimpses; like peering through the keyhole of our own memory. This poem reflects that quiet search for the self.