Milk splashes on cereal
and a drop makes its way to
the black granite countertop.

I pour my love into a bowl
of white bone china, and serve
it to you with hesitant hands.

“I see a chip in this one,
a crack in that ; this bowl has lost
it’s glaze,” you say, as I keep
pouring from bowl to bowl
until all that remains is
a sad puddle on the countertop.