Frozen Goodbye

Clock out.

Cold air wraps around me

like spilled ice in a cracked carton.

Phone buzzes.

Screen glows harsh.

Words sharp as frozen boxes stacked in rows —

a breakup sliding cold and quick,

texted from a distance.

Cardboard scent clings to skin,

salty breath from freezer aisles,

while your message burns,

fingers numb,

holding the glow.

No farewell,

just pixels breaking,

a quiet crack in the night.

I wear the smell like bruises,

and the cold follows me home.