Three clicks right two left one right

Three clicks right, two left, one right,

a rhythm burned into muscle memory.

The dull grey metal swings open slow,

paint chips like faded scars.

Inside, the ghost of forgotten lunches,

a scuffed notebook, the scent of old sweat.

Those numbers, carved into time,

stubborn digits that refuse to slip away.

I turn the dial again in my mind,

a lock undone long ago,

but still waiting, still mine,

a code written without a sound,

etched beneath the skin’s dull gray.