December's Paper Trail

The coat, slung over the chair for months,

winter’s chill still in its deep folds.

My fingers, searching for a loose button,

bruised against crinkled paper,

forgotten in a pocket’s dark.

A receipt. Thermal ink, fading,

ghost-gray. Dec 4. Two coffees,

one latte, one cappuccino. A muffin.

The numbers blurring now, the price

meaningless. But the shape of it,

the slight rough edge, the memory

of holding it, warm from the machine.

Who was with me? Or was I just buying

two to pretend? The steam then,

rising, a quick breath in the cold air.

That afternoon. Gone. Just this.

This brittle rectangle, almost ash.