Freezer Burn Text

The air, it held a smell of old

onions. And damp. And a freezer's chill.

My hands, from breaking down, were cold

and sticky. Just walking. Up the hill.

Then the phone. A quick, bright sting.

Three lines. No, not a call.

My thumb, still smelling cardboard, cling

to the glass. To watch it all

unravel. "It's not working out."

The words glowed, stark and thin.

Under the streetlight, a small shout

of nothing. Where do I begin?