spilt milk

They are the torn edges
Of a puddle of smashed glass,
Bright in the morning sun.
There is watery milk.
It looks cold, but I don't touch it,
Seeping from the glass
Like something else altogether.
Cut accidentally on purpose,
On razor sharp edges of secret tears,
Of secrets behind closed doors,
Things thrown.

The bottle that it was
Is bluish,
Words printed like a torn letter.
Piece them into images:
Fresh dairy.
The milk in the cracks in the floor,
No longer fresh,
Like an old romance turned stale
Through too many bottles.

Drunk arguments, drunker reconciliations,
Parodies of love in a thrown glass,
Shattering when you try to pin them down,
Butterflies examined in a glass case.
They are gassed to death.
I felt fragile wings beating on my palm,
Clasped finger prison,
Darkness on beauty,
And the glass is a flower
Spreading out its sunrays.