Locked

The dial is worn so smooth

I can barely see the numbers.

My fingers know the shape

of a thousand combinations

that don't work,

that never worked,

that I spin through

like I'm trying to unlock

a version of myself

I no longer have the code for.

It's locked.

Permanently.

Impossibly.

I was thinking if I just

held it long enough,

if I just let the weight

of it sit in my palm,

the numbers would come back—

the sequence that mattered,

the order that kept

my belongings safe

in a locker I haven't used

in seven years.

But memory doesn't work

like combination locks.

You can't jiggle it

until something clicks.

The metal is heavier

than I remembered.

The lock itself

is older than I thought it was.

I was young when I knew this number.

I was someone else.

And that person kept it safe

inside a locked box

that I can no longer open.

I don't even know

what I kept in there.

I don't remember

if it mattered.

But I can't get to it.

I can't get back.

The padlock just sits

in my hand,

locked,

and I'm locked out,

and the space between us

is the space between

who I was

and who I am,

and I don't have the combination

to close it.