Point of Entry

I was looking for the Phillips head

buried under old menus and dead batteries.

Instead, I found the ghosts of roommates past,

a handful of sharp things scattered in the dark.

One of them found me first,

the plastic red hat tipped sideways

on the cracked linoleum.

It went in deep enough to matter,

a bright, stinging reminder of three years ago

when we pinned up maps of places

we were never actually going to go.