Faceless

The coffee was cold, not even worth warming fingers around the painted ceramic...

The night breathed a heavy, frigid sigh

Everything felt hard and cold...and the silence was so heavy.

Hands outstretched reaching for that white glow in her circular glory...always out of reach.

"I'll make another round", her voice familier. Distant. Comforting. Cold.
She took the mug and went inside to make more coffee.

The quiet threatened its fragility with a shudder.
That fear for the break.
The choke.
The swell.
... And the faceless comfort that came between...

Fingers tightened, cold and aching, on the scarf pulling it up to hide my mouth...
"Its okay", she mumbled putting the steaming mug down.
People liked using that little phrase ...to fill up spaces, where answers didn't exist.
Because it wasn't really ok...not to anyone not in it... In that broken weight of "I don't know why".
The mug warm against my bottom lip.
The steam nearly suffocating...
The coffee slid warm and bitter over my tongue.
"We'll figure this out. Making you feel...different."
Choosing words so carefully.

Why don't we just call this exactly what it is?
... As if our lives will crumble in admittance.
Because we daren't be so "imperfect"...
Sigh