Spilt Milk

It's just spilt milk, isn't it?

the Saltine rivers that flow at midnight,

across mountains of soft, lonely down, dressed in lilac.

They find their way to restless tides of raven hair

that curls so delicately, defiantly,

the part of me that clings

to dancing with the wind,

the fickle breeze that always comes, and goes,

never settling. never staying.

I sweep up the shards of shattered glass

alone

and wonder why they don't make hearts of steel,

or tin.

why I always stitch it back together with shreds

of hope,

like sewing a bullet-proof vest

with the fluff of dandelions.

It's just spilt milk,

and it was expired anyway.