“How’s your day been?”

“It’s been fine how about you,” I respond.

words with less truth than an empty glass,

the masks as hard as a stone,

Sometimes I think the stone is sealed on.

The last face revealed was years ago.

Now that image has faded from my mind.

An argument—a differing opinion—one day was all it took,

the mask put back on,

“how’s your day been?”

“It’s been good how about you?” I respond.

Every face, every person, every friend, all we can see,

is the hard, cold stone mask.

a chisel is the only tool at hand,

slowly creating the cracks,

“What’s your favorite food?” I ask my friend.

“Who do you miss the most?”

“How’s your relationship with family and friends?”

One day, the chisel may be mistaken for cold wet cement.

What happened with your friends?

A look of shock, a face of hurt through the cracks.

And so quickly, the stone mask is all I can see.

The cracks were gone, the effort displaced.

“How’s your day been?” I respond.

“It’s been good, how about you?”

Why even try?

The mask is all I see.

And eventually, as I look in the mirror,

I only see our own masks staring back at us.

The tendrils of Dread and Despair start to creep in.

“How’s your day been?”

“It’s been good, how about you?”

Every day is the same, the cycle of boredom.

Just going through the motions,

until one day something snaps.

“How’s your day been?”

“Man, it’s not going so well,” I respond.

With that, a crack formed on my own cold, stone mask.