What's Gone

I found the receipt when I was sorting laundry,

the coffee shop name growing blurry.

Two espressos, dated two years back—

before everything changed, before the lack

of quiet places, before the shop

became a store where phones and pixels pop.

I stood holding the faded proof,

the receipt's thin paper, its roof

of ink turning gray,

the name fading away—

the place where I thought,

where I sat and I sought

some sense of myself

in coffee and shelf.

Now it's gone. Cell phones stand

where espresso cups used to land.

I don't remember what I thought about.

I don't remember who I sat with out.

I just have this receipt,

this bittersweet

proof that the place existed,

that time I once insisted

would last forever.

Two espressos. $5.47.

A closed door.

A place I'll never see anymore.

And I'm holding the evidence

of before.