They always tell you not to cry over spilled milk,

for better fortunes will follow,

and all will be okay.

But sometimes, when the cup is tipped over, 

the situation does not just concern the dropped drink,

but the stain it leaves behind.

 

A ceramic, cerulean-tinted mug placed on the utmost edge of a wooden coffee table appears to be stable at a quick glimpse.

Rested on old magazines and an exoskeleton of shimmering dust,

it slightly teeters, unbeknownst to those surrounding.

 

Out of the blue, as if a spontaneous wind with the strength of an ox

crept from the fiery depths of hell that is an ancient ventilation system,

the cup is tipped; it cascades like a defenseless, young pine tree caught in an apathetic avalanche.

 

In the heat of the moment, panic seizes precedence over aplomb. 

Some reach a hand out, others are frozen in fear.

Who is to blame? 

On your mark, get set, guilt.

Time slows down, each millisecond elongating into a melancholy millennium.

What seems like forever is actually just a few ticks,

an accelerated beat of the heart, 

a contraction of a vein in between the middle and ring finger. 

 

And despite every valiant effort made to salvage the beverage,

the last minute crusaders are at the mercy of the indifference of the world

and the cup finally smacks the floor with a piercing clatter.

It shatters into a million, minuscule pieces, 

refracting glassy shades of disappointment to the merciless heavens,

as the lifeless, suddenly purposeless liquid seeps into the white carpet

like tainted roots delving into a contaminated new soil;

just weed to uproot,

another mess to clean up.

 

For some reason, it always hits harder than it should.

It seemed sturdy; it wasn’t built to break, but it did, and it is gone.

Shock turns to rage and then weakness.

To shout or bite a cheek and bear it for the sanctity of those

 who are now staring, doe-eyed, nervously relying on your reaction as instruction?

But what good is being open anyway?

Open certainly doesn’t change anything. 

Open is the same empty feeling at the end of the night, 

knowing that the door can be open all it wants,

but even though you hear footsteps coming down the hall,

you know that the only thing coming through is a draft.

Bottled Milk it is from now on, you decide.

 

Paper towels are dishes out and cleaning supplies are doled out in silence

as those responsible fall to their knees and scrub the area,

desperately hoping to erase the blemish, 

to restore peace to their formerly pristine carpet.

 

However, milk does not disappear easily,

and on any given day,

when it rains extra hard,

each droplet with enough precision to make ticking on the glass sound like nails on a chalkboard,

or when the moon shines extraordinarily bright, 

enough to make the hounds howl, 

the stain will reappear, revealing itself once more,

its distinct, creamy shade clashing with the effervescence of an otherwise flawless carpet,

and will draw forth its original disappointment. 

And how it lingers, like the taste of artificial grape medicine that gets stuck on all the uncharted crevices of your lips, forever tainting the taste of anything it comes into contact with -

a subtle, vitriolic reminder of the ever-present, inescapable

Death.