you leave a sour aftertaste, like forgotten milk in the refrigerator that turns it back on me; the once friendly air between us curdles into tense bits and you’ve become so cold. i know – there is no use crying over spilt milk, but how do i mop up this mess, an icky situation that leaves me floored? they should really put a warning label on expired connections. you were the bread and butter of my mornings, giving me a nostalgic sort of childlike happiness, strengthening my brittle soul. now my stomach just gurgles with unease as i drink your remaining words and swallow back mine, unsure, maybe resigned.
i hope i don’t choke.