Memory in Three Digits

Under the rusted shears, I found the weight

of a heavy, brass-faced lock.

The numbers on the dial are half-gone,

grayed out by years of rattling in the grit.

I tried 8-4-1, then 7-9-2,

the years we stopped being what we were.

It stayed shut.

Just a cold, useless lump of metal

keeping a secret I don’t even want anymore.