The cigarette burns,
whiskey half-empty,
I stare at the ceiling—
my body frozen,
like time itself has died.

Maybe if I stare long enough,
you’ll walk through that door,
say, “It’s not your fault,”
and we’ll hug,
but the silence cuts through,
and you’re already gone.

Maybe I should have kept quiet,
my words too heavy for you to bear.
Your foot told me so,
and your hands agreed,
gripping the wheel,
not steering,
but letting go.

I wish I could wipe your tears,
hold your shattered heart
and stop the screaming,
but it’s too late.

So you accelerate,
and I’m left in this stillness,
a wreck that never crashed.