Evidence of Absence

The thermal paper is curled and slick,

a violet ghost of a morning meal.

Two lattes and a muffin, a trick

of memory that I can almost feel.

The ink is fading along the fold

where the pocket kept it warm and dark.

It’s a story that’s already been told,

a faint and disappearing mark.

The cafe is a hollow, blackened shell,

burnt to the ground while I slept through the night.

This scrap is the only thing left to tell

that we once sat there in the early light.