in mourning black

For when hearts bruise, crack, break, shatter in life's storage-hold; it would sluice between the damage, a warm poly-filla, taking up the emptiness with a perfect alchemy of sweet and warm.
For when the world sees your shoulders as concrete and not the papier-maché you sometimes fashion, it would make tissue-paper of weighty priority...

I knew something was wrong on Thursday.
Instead of The Mochaccino, I was presented with cafe mocha (no, its not the same thing, where one is ambrosia, the other is olympic sludge)
Come Friday, and in place of The Mochaccino, I'm given cappuccino. (which, to be fair, was worthy of imbibing)
Incompetent service, so I thought, the Fournos staff already wound down for weekend. But today came the death-knell, "we don't sell that anymore, its not feasible."
The words slashed, the sting of an open wound giving way to dull numbness.
No more Mochaccino? It refused to compute. No more Mochaccino?
Somebody hold me.