Faded Ink

It was just a box,

forgotten for years,

beneath the dust of old sweaters,

and then there it was.

A ticket stub, soft and thin as a lie,

the date blurred, a smear of black

against the yellowed paper.

My fingers found the crease

where I’d folded it, just so,

into the pocket of that jacket

I wore every single day then.

His band, that name,

just a handful of letters

but they opened something up

in my chest

like a hinge that hadn't moved

in too long,

screaming a little.

And I remembered not the music

but the way he looked at me

when the lights came on,

like he was still deciding

if he’d ever see me again.

He didn't.