Idling

The engine’s cooling down in heavy, metallic gulps,

a rhythmic ticking under the hood

like a clock that doesn't want to strike.

I know I’m lying. You know I’m lying.

The argument is finished, the bones of it

picked clean and drying on the dash.

Still, I don't reach for the plastic handle.

Our breath has turned the glass into a wall,

hiding the street, turning the porch lights

into blurry yellow thumbprints.

It’s warm in here, and I’m wrong,

and if I stay, I don't have to be alone yet.