Crying over Milk

With a whoosh,
And then sploosh,
the milk fell on the table
leaving me quite , unable,
to face my fears-
without shedding tears.

Clumsy child, they all whispered,
Hedonistic romantic , said my sister-
Why are you crying over spilt milk?
You'd think we weren't of the same ilk!
She exclaims, clutching a purse
delicate hand flailing-
she makes things so much the worse...

I try to speak the words but sentences I cannot form,
Instead I think of opportunity cost- choice foregone-
A possibility of another me
is undoubtedly
irrevocably false.

I loved pretending- but there was honestly
just a very big part of me
that could not help but be
crying over milk,
I couldn't explain
sobs wracking my frame
why this milk
which had split
was driving me insane!

She's never like this,
my sister, always sun-kissed-
and not spilling things
and delicate and dedicate-d
echo, echo and echo,
when it calls my love, my youth-

Up in the mountain, down in the plains,
This same song is burning my name-
Somewhere in between the sensible obscene,
I find the courage to say-
To confess,
Why I always cry after I spill milk,
Somewhere I chose to live my life like the prophets did,
Its a game I learned I to play in third grade,
I refuse I refuse to learn your ways,
All this I say,
I can't see the stars in the back of the car,
'It's nothing, it's nothing' sister says
Its a game I learned to play by her claims
I REFUSE TO LEARN,
I can't see the stars in the back of the car,
Somewhere I think I whisper to her,
'Dyspraxia' sister.
And she starts too crying over split milk.
We hug and remember why we are so close,
once again,
I lean into her embrace in that moment we froze-
Eternally smiling over spilt milk.