I found the slip of paper

I found the slip of paper

in the pocket of a box

I haven't opened since the move.

The ink is a ghost

but I remember the fog

on the glass of the Greyhound

and the way the highway lights

smeared like spilled milk.

I was nineteen and terrified

that the driver would forget

I existed at the next stop.

I sat so still my knees ached.