Steamed milk and cigarettes,
Macbook Pros and Airs,
coffee black and paperbacks,
and lies uttered so politely.
The coffeehouse is where we go
when we need to shed our skins,
to wash away the excess paints
and masks we carry so tightly.
Heartbreak coats the walls and floors,
sadness fills the arid air.
We drape ourselves in trench coats
with pockets of goodbyes whispered lightly.
C. Brown 