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.

When I Can’t Find Words, I Try to Find the Meaning…

I started drawing and painting from a young age. Then, I learned to put sentences together. I learned to do it so well, I never shut up, a fact consecutively confirmed to my mother and father at parent teacher conferences.

Since I had to exercise restraint and refrain from opening my trap in class as much, I started to write.

The more I wrote, the more I dropped visually expressing myself.

But, occasionally (REALLY occasionally), I find myself speechless.

Okay.

That’s a lie.

I find myself quiet-er?

And I pick up charcoal or pastels.

I don’t title anything I draw or paint, which is weird since titles are big in writing…

If you have any suggestions for titles, would love to hear them… 😉