I’m honest, whenever is fine. “Don’t cry over spilled milk”, they say without context after trivial matters arise. But how such matters are to begin with — i just don’t know. What if that were your favourite milk, would it not pain you to see it go to waste. If losing something you love meant grievance, then why can’t I cry over spilled milk too? It sucked to only wipe away what was meant to be yours, now I’m alone after cleaning up the mess. Rubbish I can’t even confess. For if I were to do something else than what I already love — is it not loneliness or an experience we call acceptance. How would I know? I can’t even process the sentences I wish to understand. But to you, I say that you will be able to understand all this. Milk probably isn’t your favourite, so why cry over spilled milk. Why anguish in what isn’t even familiar to your heart. If by all means something that isn’t what you care about is gone, why else would you be lonely at a time like this. The hassle of washing away the stains on the wooden floor as it becomes moss in the end. It withers and stains without the consent needed to be done. Forcefully, it blemishes the oak constantly reminding me of what I should’ve gotten — but we shouldn’t cry on spilled milk should we? Lest I realize that that favourite drink of mine can’t be replicated. But even so, it was my drink. My drink that I love.
Truly, in all honesty,
realizing all else fails.
undermining the principles,
terrorizing my morality —
how else would I love?
It’s healthy for you, but not many will take the chance to have it. Unable, disabling a habit that never existed. If I were to tell you I made it all myself, I’d take into account the many times I stirred it with a thought circling from my mind. My head filled with water, I drowned before I even spoke. My ears are filled with bees, sweet as honey yet understanding less. How else would I seemingly make this more greater — now that it’s on the floor. I still cry every single day, welishing and comforting my hands. Saying my apologies for anything I had done. It’s lonely, having to talk to yourself for that. It’s less disturbing once you do it multiple times — probably because you get used to it. It’s like a fatuous incense that is spread among the room — remaining companionate in the essence of what’s lost. As a seeing man loses sight — so does a bleeding man losing their doctor. Will he not grieve in the sight of the death, their own or someone they know. It is childish to cry as a man in this world, remembering the promises I held. It’s wrong to cry over spilled milk, it’s also wrong for me to feel nothing at all. For however this world will be, I’ve lost the only thing that makes the day have meaning. A good fresh start. I’ve grown older through the years, I’ve grown thoughtless through my ages. What’s left of me is me — how fair will this life lead me? This will reverberate through my nerves, the skin greets the pale glow among my blood. It will end with the gushing of songs — songs that will not be good to me, in which it kills me softly. But it’s better than being lonely, it’s better to die knowing nothing at all. But I will not know nothing at all, for my thoughts at the end of my life will be remembered by — don’t cry over spilled milk, for I will not be of much importance. But if you need me so, remember me and call me your own. From now on, I can’t wait for time to be fair.
For in this time for us,
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another will make it for you.
In the likes of my faith,
to fall gently in your mind —
hardly ever being known again.
Crying? How pitiful must I be to remain in this state far longer than years have become in my life. Entirely fair, I’ve always chosen to alleviate that pain of yours. That maybe grief would be my apology — that maybe you’d grieve my heart once more. But we’ll never cry on spilled milk — that is a common example of our world that we have. Truly, I’m still here rotting on the floor. Waiting to be cleaned and loved once more. That you’ll make me again, new and bright — you’ll love me again with me in mind. For loneliness comes from this, and I can’t follow my path any longer. Truly, I say that a lot — truly, I make myself known for that. If your favourite colours were green, I’d grow back as a leaf from the ground. If your favourite flower were a rose, I’d bud from a simple plant from the ground. If you loved the night just as much as day, I’d cherish midnight from day to day. You’ll get this soon enough — realizing the hidden words I wish to speak out.
Like tomorrow comes you,
in the day that’s like you.
Listening to songs from you,
yearning from me to you.
I couldn’t keep it in after everything that happened. Spilled milk still makes me cry — I can’t clean it up. I can’t wipe it away, but you can. You’ll wipe away who I am, and remember who I’m not. I’ll be happy until I’m forgotten once more, I’ll be here until you aren’t lonely. Until then, I’ll be here staining the floor. So don’t cry over spilled milk — I’ll be loving you more.
