Countdowns are two-dimensional
Don’t mean much
at all
to me

To see pixels in formation
Spelling out through transformation
the days and seconds till I
leave

It doesn’t hit
In the right way.

It doesn’t create the right pain—
Nothing beats when hunger pangs

Draw me to the pantry
Filing down the tins and cans
and my eyes land
on

the food that my mom bought for me
My favorites all stocked constantly
Knowing that I cannot possibly

Finish

A single jar of peanut butter
Let alone its twin

Before the numbers turn to hollow eyes
Before I close my door— say my goodbyes
A half-empty jar the only prize

To show that I have been.