I carry a penciled receipt into the bookstore before demolition. I leave knowing what someone else receiving the version I built costs me.

I hear your laugh cross the bookstore before demolition before I see you.

I carry cedar dust on my coat between us when our eyes meet.

I see a penciled receipt resting in your palm.

I understand that I need my labor to stop looking like their luck.

I remain beside you as the crew uncovers our old note inside the wall.

I ask the smallest question with the largest history.

I see your fingers tighten around a penciled receipt.

I remember your thumb tracing calm into my wrist.

I resent the body for keeping what the future refused.

I place someone else receiving the version I built between us and ask you not to soften it.

I watch apology gather behind your teeth.

I touch a penciled receipt to keep my hands from reaching for you.

I follow your words until they reach what you decided.

I understand the wound when you give them the patience I taught you.

I breathe through the second that rearranges us.

I move toward the locked reading room because the room has become too small.

I freeze as your palm finds the center of my back.

I let our foreheads nearly touch.

I hold still while your final words gather.

I reach for you inside the bookstore before demolition, but you give them the patience I taught you.