I found a receipt in my coat

I found a receipt in my coat.

Your handwriting there, a note

on the back—a number I never called.

Ham and swiss and sprouts in purple ink,

fading fast. Three weeks, I think,

before you stopped answering.

So you were there. At that deli,

ordering a sandwich. Really

just choosing lunch alone.

Maybe thinking of me. Maybe not.

The receipt's the only proof I've got

that you existed somewhere I wasn't.

I keep it in my wallet. It's evidence

of hunger. Of paying for what made sense

once. Of your finger on the menu.

That's all we leave. Receipts.

Proof that we ate. We repeat

eating, even after.