Handle

Turn it. Slam it. Open it.
A gateway into another world.
Wherever you want to go, you’re only one tug away.
The intimacy of clasping together, even for a brief moment makes me feel warm inside.
A friend reaching out.
And meaning it.
I can’t smell you.
I can’t taste you.
But I feel you, I know you are there.
Something about you that is so close, but always just a bit out of reach.
Trying to get a handle.
Itching, longing for our hands to interlock and never let go.
Or even if for a moment, I’m fine with it either way.
Why can’t I see your insides?
I know what you do, but I don’t think I’ll ever know how you truly work.
Unless I smashed you into tiny pieces.
But even then, I would only have a clue.
That’s the thing about getting a handle.
It’s an illusion. A grey mist.
The soft outline of the room is all I have.
Silver. Gold. Mostly metal.
Mostly cold.
Sometimes warm, but only after you’ve been used by someone else.
Oh, handle. You get around.
Clinking and clacking.
Latching and releasing.
We share a lot.
Opening and closing are one in the same.
I think I found a friend in you.
Thank You for being there.
Even though sometimes you aren’t reliable.
You get stuck, but so do I.
Most of the time you work, and I know what to expect.

Derek Sammak