Cold comfort

The freezer door groans open,

a blast of manufactured cold.

Inside, the last square of ice cream,

wrapper torn, story told.

Freezer-burnt edges, hard as stone,

taste like regret, or maybe less.

Chewing slow, all alone,

a quiet, small, precise mess.

No comfort, just the texture,

the sugary grit, the ache.

Another one, another gesture,

for feelings I can't quite shake.