object
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Smooth wooden handle
6 inches, nearly 10 when flicked open
to reveal stainless steel
The blade marred only by a few oily fingerprints
and a speck of brown
It smells of dust
and of dried blood
The moment the sun rises, you should await your object. The object of your affection.
I am a key.
I am metal and cold.
I am hard and ornate.
I do not taste or see or feel.
Pockets, drawers, and key-chains.
All places that I can hide.
Locking thing up tight.
Hider of many things.
