Receipt for Goodbye

I wiped the last shelf, clock ticking out the night,

freezer air stuck under my skin like frost.

Then the screen lit up:

three words, no pause.

The smell of cardboard mixed with cold behind me,

a crumpled receipt in my pocket,

proof I was still here,

still waiting for something that quit without a sound.

No voice to shatter the cold,

just silence pressed in pixels,

a doorway closing,

while I still wore the smell of ice and hours gone wrong.