Tarnish

Tarnish,
it’s not a word to tangle with
it’s a smudge across silvered lives
like a film we didn’t want to watch
but which instead we stared into 
defeated, not talking.

And as bright things brown and blur
turning the reflection of a window
into a bent and beaten thing
fingers immersed in printers ink
leave their memories
everywhere we care to look;
the recollection of a touch, 
a smudge, the grease of lives
who’s energy fades until the
urge to polish stops, and out of
sleepwalking months, come
hands to hold old objects,
turning them over,
blinking reflectionless
into this new murk,
like morning coals,
still warm to touch.

I say tarnish, and I tangle
in it’s definition;
wanting hard to mend
and cure but wanting too
new treasure.

I say tarnish,
but perhaps it’s patina.