Pinned Past

Dust motes dance on cracked cork,

faded edges curl and sigh.

Notes, yellowed, tacked uneven,

lost reminders of who I was.

A photograph skewed, held by a rusty pin,

a scribbled address, torn at the corner.

They hang like ghosts,

anchored in a quiet corner,

forgotten but not gone.

Hands shook as they traced the holes,

a patchwork of time, brittle and slack.

Pieces held together,

yet falling apart,

a corkboard skeleton of old days.