Quiet Things

Eyelashes fluttering on tear-stained cheeks,

while fingertips click softly against the keyboard.

The clock is ticking.

Some days it feels like an eternity.

While others I blink, and the day is already gone.

Coffee is brewing,

While a storm stirs outside.

Someone is crying in the distance.

Soft, delicate whimpers.

Scared.

Alone.

Exhausted.

Teardrops drip down onto the counter,

One plopping into the open mug.

The movement startles me,

And then I realize,

Those are my tears.

Those are my whimpers.

I am so tired.

Exhausted.

Disengaged.

Even my tears need coffee to feel alive.