Little Miss Receipt-Pull — Old Texts in Court

Lyrics

My phone is heavy in my hand.
Warm from my palm.
The tablecloth is so white.
Everyone is so happy.

I remember the ding.
October, 2019.
You were sitting across from me at that cafe on Mercer Street.
Your thumbs moved so fast.
You laughed.
And you sent it.
And I saw it.
And my thumb and my power button moved together.
A little click.
A snapshot of a feeling you've forgotten you ever had.
Saved to a folder called... just in case.

And I hold up the screen, a little blue and white flame.
A mirror's glimmer in the candlelight.
I read the words you wrote.
I give them their air back.
This is the receipt.
This is the proof.
This is the part of the story you left out when you said your vows.

The forks have all stopped.
Someone's uncle coughs into a napkin.
Anna, your face.
It's a photograph I can't take.
The lilies on the table smell too loud.
The salmon is getting cold on a hundred plates.
Your new husband is looking at me.
No, he's looking at the phone.
At the ghost of you from 2019.

And I hold up the screen, a little blue and white flame.
A mirror's glimmer in the candlelight.
I read the words you wrote.
I give them their air back.
This is the receipt.
This is the proof.
This is the part of the story you left out when you said your vows.

They will call this cruelty.
They don't understand the patience of the archive.
The quiet work of the keeper of records.
You stood up there in white and told a perfect, clean story.
I just... provided a footnote.
A primary source.
It’s not my fault the foundation was sand.
I just brought the water.

The cake is still uncut.
Three tiers of perfect, sweet silence.
I slide the phone back into my purse.
The screen goes dark.
The friendship is over.
Read.
At 8:32 PM.