Waiting For You in the Kitchen

Time spills over.
Curdled
milk slicks the countertop.
You're gone.
I will let it mold grass green, send
spores adrift, to call you home.

Sticky dishes pile
high.
Much sweeter than you.
Their syrupy
glue will catch you, and hold fast, while
I dance around the butcher block.

Breath in heaves.
Sobs.
Can't live like this.
Come home!
I'll wipe it all away for you, clean
the wrong with rags of bleach.