When Eyes Turn Cold

The bitter words slipped thin, like smoke,

arcing just beyond the half-closed door.

They curled and hissed beneath my coat,

warm coffee trembling on the floor.

I caught the shard: “Can’t stand that one,”

a phrase that sank without a splash.

No name, no face—just acid spun,

a silent scream, a sudden clash.

The cup sweated, hands pulled back,

the wooden table scarred and worn.

In that café, behind the crack,

a frost grew sharp, unnamed, and torn.

No friend nor foe, but still the sting

in every glance I couldn’t meet.

Hated in the unseen ring,

a shadow’s cast beneath my feet.