Spilled milk

To move forward and leave a memory behind.

To think I am still crying over spilled milk; milk that has rotten years ago, I still drank and consumed it.

I could only hope and gleam the day the milk will turn back to its old state, sweet and clean, yet I could only bear witness to the fact it was never so.

It— was always rotten, the fact that I clung so tightly to it for years even after tasting it again, I slowly allowed myself to be poisoned by its disgusting taste.

Ridiculous, I thought I was a far more better than to allow spoiled milk to get the better of me?

Yet, I stood mistaken, I was left crying each night, longing to have a drink of that rotten, smelly, moldy, milk.

What a bumbling idiot, who knew hysteria was caused by consuming spoiled milk? 

Longing, pining for its presence once more, accepting the fact that even if it is spoiled, I would rather have that milk than any fresh milk in the market.

I can't have it anymore, my spoiled milk has spilled, —again.

I can't clean up the spill with a rag and wring the milk back into the cup again.

It is too spoiled.

Dirty.

Or was I the one who made it that way all along?

Did I hope to much?

Did I cling too much?

Why did it took me this long to accept that, there is nothing changing that milk.

Nothing is going to cleaning it.

Nothing is going to make it fresh again.

There is nothing I can do to make that milk the one I knew before.

I can only clean it with a bucket of my tears, and a mop of memories.

I miss my old milk.

I can't have this one anymore,

I guess I have to find a fresh one.