My bowl is empty,
you tripped on it and everything spilled out.
I remember your half-a** apology.
That platitude you squeaked as you tried to fill it back up
with your warm milk.
But you...
missed the bowl.
And then again.
I moved my bowl so it could fall under you.
You finally got it in.

As if my heart could take more today,
you spoke to me about another bowl.
Not one that you tipped over, but one that you drank from.
You didn't waste their liquids,
not a drop.
But you tripped over mine,
not leaving a drop of my black tea.
You did fill it back up, with your milk.
Which I drank gratefully, and much too quickly.
But I ran out of black tea.

My bowl is empty.