Unpaid Ink

The receipt slips from pages,

a cracked spine holds it just long enough —

yellowed corners pressed beneath dust,

faded scrawl of a promise

that never found my voice.

I woke with it crawling beneath my ribs,

a weight in the cold morning air.

You called once.

I didn't answer.

The phone slept in silence,

the call left hanging like an unpaid bill

beneath the dust on a shelf.

I fold the paper again,

fingers tracing the ghost of numbers,

no signature,

yet the debt sits,

a shadow sharper than ink.