What I Bought

The receipt is barely here,

the ink surrendered long ago.

I can read the price if I peer—

twenty-three forty-seven, so

I bought something six months back

at a store that doesn't exist anymore.

I cannot remember what I lacked,

what made me need something more.

The shop's closed. The item's gone.

Or I lost it. Or I used it up.

I'm standing in the kitchen, drawn

to this faded scrap, this cup

of evidence I can't explain.

What was I reaching for that day?

What did I think would change my pain,

what did I think I could buy or say?

The receipt is creased from folding.

The numbers blur if I squint.

But something keeps me holding

onto this particular hint

that I was once someone

who walked into a store with hope,

who thought that this small one

transaction was my rope.

The store is gone. I'm still here.

The receipt is still here too.

I'll keep it close, year after year,

wait for the moment I knew

what I was looking for all along.

But maybe that's the lie—

maybe what I wanted was to be wrong,

maybe I just wanted to buy.