Spilled milk becomes less of a cliché
When its spreading, eating the table away
And you're afraid to wipe it up without a towel
In case it swallows up your fingers as well.

I shouldn't have knocked the glass over, I know
It's too early for the messes to start
But I thought I saw you staring in the window
Memory part of my morning routine.

Milk-drops crawl to puddles on the floor.
White created a home in pores of the wood
Erasing letters photos and poems scattered there from days before.

And the biting glass in my palm
Isn't making this house any cleaner.
And the screaming
Only makes the house sound emptier.