The Countdown

Ten seconds on the clock

and the room smells like champagne and citrus,

someone’s heels pass by, and no one notices I’m still.

.

Nine—

my phone is face down,

because hope is louder when it lights up.

.

Eight—

laughter breaks open behind me,

couples leaning into borrowed futures.

.

Seven—

I practice looking casual,

like I chose this empty space beside me.

.

Six—

you said midnight,

like it was a promise and not a maybe.

.

Five—

the band must be louder than I am.

.

Four—

someone squeezes my shoulder,

pity dressed up as kindness.

.

Three—

I imagine your car on the highway,

imagine time bending for you.

.

Two—

the room inhales.

.

One—

confetti, kisses, the sound of being chosen—

and I am still standing exactly where you left me.

.

Midnight arrives without you,

right on time.