Refunds

Some things come back,  

slipped across counters, thumb-smudged receipts,  

the cashier's half-smile a quiet permission.  

Sizes too small for swollen stories,  

colors that draw too much attention,  

shoes that blister the wrong kind of memory.  

I think about how we've made  

a ritual out of second chances.  

The way a shirt untangles from regret,  

how a phrase like "store credit"  

is a currency of forgiveness.  

But not everything refunds so cleanly.  

The half-burnt bridges we never crossed,  

the dinner invitations we left unopened,  

the apology caught in our throats,  

so determined it turned into silence.  

Some returns are just lessons  

we pay twice to understand.  

Not every receipt keeps track of loss.  

Not every heart has a barcode.