Cold people have cold Syrup

As the cold syrup lurched out of the curved tip. Noticeably cold from the lack of fluidity, almost of molasses.

Her waffles laid there untouched, but broken from the pan, she was sad.

The noise between the two was friendly but old.

The grass green plates complimented the gritty ground while the wind willowed through the feeders.

While the last drop hit the squares, the waffle rested, its pours filled with a sticky chill. Putting the cap on he sat, pulling out his chair he ate.

The two ate their breakfast each with their own mug, white curved steam rose from the mugs and disappeared with sips.

Their love was much like the sips, taking away from what once was.

The divorce papers were in the middle, the centerpiece of the table you could say.

Cold syrup lay dorment.