32178 and it never leaves

32-17-8 and it never leaves.

Twelve years later, I still know

the weight of the dial under my thumb,

how it catches at 32.

The locker held nothing important—

a sweater I borrowed, textbooks I didn't read,

the ordinary debris of someone trying

to become someone else instead.

But I forgot your birthday.

Genuinely forgot. Had to check.

And I can't remember the face

of someone I loved for two years,

the one whose name I've let wreck—

Never mind.

32-17-8.

This is what my brain preserved.

This useless mechanical prayer.

My hands still know the shape of it.

Still remember the feeling

of getting it right.

Of all the things to keep,

I kept this. A number. A lock.

A moment of getting something right

when everything else slipped through my fingers

like water, like something I didn't care enough about

to hold.