While I Was Still There

11:58 PM

and you decided

while I was still inside,

still turning off the freezers,

still reeking of cardboard and cold.

I sat in my car

and couldn't feel my hands anymore—

the grip on the door handle

meant nothing,

the cold had moved past my skin

and settled somewhere inside,

somewhere between me

and the machine I was sitting in.

The lot lights turned the night

to nothing, to nowhere,

your words on the screen

in that order, that prayer—

the one that means you had time

to type it, to send it,

but not time to spare

for saying it

face to face,

here,

where I was still there.

12:07 AM.

Nine minutes

of sitting

in the cold

that moved from the air

to my chest.

You did it

while I was still wearing

the smell of the place.

While I was still

there.