Worn Soft

Four years and the edges have rounded.

The date is almost illegible now—

I've touched it so many times

that my fingers have worn it smooth,

the way water wears a stone down to nothing.

I don't know why I keep it.

The date doesn't matter.

The movie doesn't matter.

He doesn't matter.

But the ticket stub does—

it proves something happened,

that I was there,

that something real enough to have a date

occurred between us once.

The barista asked what it was.

I couldn't explain it.

How do you say: I keep this because

it hurt in a specific way,

because I want proof

that I was stupid for him,

because the stubborn fact of the ticket

is easier to carry than the weight

of how I felt?

So I just said: a ticket.

And put my wallet away.

But I'll touch it again tomorrow,

run my thumb over the worn edges,

feel the smoothness that only time and regret can make.