Last Rites and Leftovers

I’m scrolling back through years of texts to clear

some space, but then I see the date you left.

You said, "I'm five minutes away, my dear."

It’s sitting there, a small and digital theft.

I was waiting with the porch light on for you,

chewing a piece of black licorice from the bag

I’d left on the passenger seat. I knew

the flavor was too bitter, a sticky drag

against my teeth. You never pulled in the drive.

The text is still unread, or unreplied—

a piece of code that thinks you’re still alive.

I should delete it, move the weight aside,

but the bag is empty now, the car is cold,

and five minutes has turned into a life

of being quiet and doing what I’m told,

while the screen cuts through the dark just like a knife.