A tragedy manifests in the ruins of a broken coffee cup at 3:35 in the morning. Fractured shards of sparkling, cream-colored glass scatter across a silent kitchen, delicately kissing the floor. Inky, earth-colored coffee floods the cool tile, inching away from my feet in dark ripples. I stand in the hallway. He stands by the window. The glass is laced with a frost that swallows any heat who dares to breathe.
The walls are silent. The air is stiff. The roof creaks to the nervous fluttering of my heart. The floor is ice. My fingertips are numb. The bed is empty, it stings with chills when skin meets sheets. His words are red. My breath is blue. Our pink lungs are plagued by unforgiving frost.
A silent panic pierces my bones as he walks toward the door. Frost pierces his hand as he takes the doorknob. Pain pierces my heart as he gives one last, longing look. The shutting door pierces my everlasting silence.
