The milk expired when I decided I wanted coffee.

Well, it didn’t expire in the seconds between craving and rising. No— it had been dying for days.

A full gallon, untouched, slowly curdling in the cold.

Why didn’t I notice? If I’d known it was expiring soon, I would have used it, saved it.

Instead, I watched as I poured it out, a thick, sour stream down the drain And something inside of me broke.

Once, it was good, once, it was fresh, once, it was mine.

Why do good things

go bad?

I guess I could just take my coffee black, stomach the bitterness— I have before.

But I’ve never had to pour out bad milk, watch something

that once was

dissolve

into nothing.

I thought of buying more,

but what if I forgot again?

What if I let another gallon

turn to ruin in the

back of my fridge?

As I struggled

with the loss,

the coffee sat there,

slowly turning cold.

Cold black coffee

isn’t good,

and reheating it

seemed pointless

when the air was

still heavy

with the scent

of what I’d already

thrown away.

So, I poured the coffee out too,

leaving me

milk-less,

and coffee-less.

I could buy more—

there’s always more to buy,

isn’t there?

But instead,

I found myself

lying back down,

thinking

of what I’d lost.

Maybe later

I’d go to the store,

get more.

But maybe first,

I’d stop at the park,

let the sky

wash over me,

feel the grass

between my fingers,

listen to the birds.

Maybe things

would be okay,

regardless.

But how would I know

if they hadn’t been bad

first?

If I hadn’t poured out the milk,

ever thought about coffee

to begin with—

would I ever have gone outside

that day?

Would I ever have noticed

the morning breeze,

the soft light of the sun?

So, it’s okay.

Maybe, there’s no need to cry over spoiled milk when the world is still so beautiful.