Muscle Memory for a Ghost

Twenty-four, eleven, thirty-six.

I can’t remember the PIN for the credit card

I’ve used every Tuesday for three years,

but these digits sit in my marrow like a tick.

I saw a Master Lock at the gym today,

the same matte black dial and silver face.

My thumb twitched with a ghostly weight,

wanting to feel that rhythmic, metallic click

of three turns to the right.

It’s a useless key to a box that doesn't exist,

filled with heavy textbooks and a sour towel.

I am a warehouse of outdated sequences,

keeping the gate for a version of me

who hasn't been seen in twenty years.