Milk

I love the morning in winter,
Roulade in my blanket, I un-roulade myself out.
And hold its wooly ends,
whining until it agrees to come to the kitchen with me,
So I can go drink my milk.

I love watching the milk tsunami
out
of
the
bottle.

And surf
into
its
reflection
off the
Stainless.
Deep.
Pan.

I love watching the gas stove flame up.
Stretching its blue and yellow fingers,
Pinching the pan’s ass,
Until it makes the milk mumble
in audible bubbles.

As it boils up.

I like how it

shhhhhhh-es

into my cup.

I like looking at the foam floating on top,
Parting in the middle,
Letting the velvet white sea swim up.

I like the first sip.

It’s sweet like sugar that’s huddled into grainy crystals,
That un-grain

in my mouth.

I like the last sip.

It’s less sweet,
its faded sugar
stone washed sugar
that’s a lot less passionate
that’s a lot more chilled out.

I love the morning in winter,
Because I love my milk.

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One thought on “Milk

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