The Weight of a Thumbtack

I found it today, an old thumbtack

lying there, a sliver of history, like a crack

in the floor where memories slip,

each rusted edge holding weight and grip.

How something so small could tether time,

I wonder, tracing its surface, so fine.

It once pinned reminders, notes scribbled bright,

crumpled edges of thoughts that tried to take flight,

yet here it rests, forgotten and spent,

a symbol of moments I failed to represent.

Like a stubborn whisper that won’t fade away,

I think of all those things I couldn’t convey,

reminders of laughter or words that slipped past,

drenched in silence, like shadows cast—

a thumbtack on the floor, holding so much,

it bears the weight of what I’ve lost and touched.