M I L K

Figuratively, we bought a house where sand meets the shore.

The train station a ways off, rolls through if need be.

An iron furnace piped the ceiling amongst the marble.

Cement counters and chrome appliances purposely paired like blonde ale and zinfandel.

It was her, she was the feng shui.

Monthly dinner parties mingled between the noble prize literature hall, and sculptures that cluttered an accent wall.

The wine closet stocked with vineyards blood, and every day there was one less bottle.

One less fruit in the braided basket and one less panties in the drawers.

I noticed each dawn there was one less and less of something that belonged to us.

Eventually, I sat in a house with no furniture between the desolate, bellowing walls.

The lies they’d scream at me amongst the many other things that tortured me,

like the missing velvet hangers in the closet.

Or the Egyptian cotton replaced with synthetic silk.

The only visible object that was left was a quart of 2% milk that resembled the once wholesomeness of an undefiled home.

This grueling hushed riddance invaded our space for over a year, but how did we end up here?