Single Ticket

The greasy crust, a curled moon,

landed in the street-side bin.

Smelled of old popcorn, a stale tune,

and a lie I’d tucked back in.

That Saturday, the double feature.

Bought two tickets, kept the other

folded in my palm, a sly creature.

Said I went with Mark, my brother.

He was out of town, I knew that.

Just wanted to sit in the dark,

feel the rumble, watch the picture.

But alone, that felt too stark.

So I made up the ghost of a friend,

a shadow seat beside my own.

It’s how these little fictions begin,

seeds of being less alone.

The smell still clings, a sickly sweet,

just like the story, worn and thin.