Point and Pin

I jabbed my finger on a point

so small, it sneaked beneath my skin.

A rusty spike—a sharpened joint—

pinned down old photos, fading thin.

The edges curled, the paper cracked,

a memory caught and held too fast.

Sunlight struck the metal back,

a quiet stab from a fading past.

A needle sharp that held me there,

in a moment I forgot to bear.

Tiny spear, you stuck, you stay,

little pain that won’t walk away.