Frozen in Aisle Three

I hear it overhead and the cereal aisle goes soft,

the boxes blur into cardboard,

and I'm frozen in the moment

of recognition—

those opening notes,

and my hand stops

midway to a box I don't want.

Two seconds.

That's all it takes

for my chest to do something

that isn't quite breathing,

for the fluorescent hum to sound like a trap,

for me to understand

that I have to move,

have to put distance between me

and the music,

have to pretend the pasta aisle

is urgent.

My phone comes out.

I'm checking it

like I have somewhere else to be,

like my hand in my pocket

is a reason to walk,

not a distraction.

The song follows me anyway.

It always does.

It knows where I am.

I'm thinking about how obvious

it must be,

how my face must read like a door

someone locked from inside,

how the song knows exactly

what I'm running from

in this grocery store,

in this moment

where I have to keep walking,

have to keep my shoulders steady,

have to make it look

like I'm just shopping,

just here for milk and bread,

just a person buying things

and not a person who can't hear that song

without feeling something

die.