I think a penciled receipt is only a keepsake. Then I meet post breakup ache again at the bookstore before demolition.

I find you waiting inside the bookstore before demolition, exactly where memory puts you.

I feel cedar dust on my coat as you turn toward me.

I touch a penciled receipt after your fingers leave it.

I hear my own pulse insist that I need the room to stop remembering.

I step closer when the crew uncovers our old note inside the wall.

I ask whether you expected to see me tonight.

I feel your breath change beside the locked reading room.

I feel the old shape of your hand around my cold fingers.

I learn again that touch can outlive permission.

I ask for the truth of post breakup ache without decoration.

I recognize the careful voice you use before hurting me.

I move a penciled receipt between our hands like a boundary.

I hear every reason and search for one choice.

I realize that you left but your habits stayed.

I let the truth land without bargaining.

I carry a penciled receipt toward the locked reading room without looking back.

I feel your hand close gently around my sleeve.

I turn close enough to feel your breath.

I watch you choose whether to close the remaining distance.

I reach for you inside the bookstore before demolition, but you left but your habits stayed.