Cold Cafe

-

Beauty is admired,

but never held long enough.




Compliments fall soft,

while silence roars between us.


A hand is held—

not tightly,

not forever.


Eyes meet,

say what lips are too afraid to confess.


Words are spoken,

yet none stay.


Cold coffee weeps,

droplets bleeding down the glass,

mirroring the tears

I refuse to hide.


The cut is plastered,

pain dressed up as healing.


Lipstick-stained napkins

are folded like fragile memories,

hidden inside a wallet

meant to remember me.


But the wallet is lost—

and with it,

every promise.


Just as easily,

he lost

me.

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