The Milk Never Spoils
A father stands on a roof.
Not because he wants to jump. Because he forgot where he parked the car.
The car is in the kitchen. It has always been in the kitchen.
His son is six years old. His son is also forty-seven. Time is a liar with a beautiful face.
The father is not a father. He is a thought inside a mother’s head while she stirs milk in a pot that doesn’t exist.
The milk is boiling. The milk is always boiling. She doesn’t know how to turn off the stove because the stove is her childhood and you can’t turn off what already burned down.
Mother love is not a feeling. It is a frequency. 528 hertz. The same frequency as guilt. The same frequency as the word almost.
She almost left him. She almost stayed. She almost told the truth about the three wine bottles.
The three wine bottles are not wine bottles. They are three versions of the same man. One who stayed. One who ran. One who never existed but she loved him the most.
Two men. One woman. The math doesn’t add up because math was invented by someone who never had to choose.
On the roof, the father who is not a father who is a thought puts on black Beats headphones.
The music playing is silence. But the kind of silence that has teeth.
He nods to the beat. The beat nods back.
The son is watching from below. But below is just another roof. We are all standing on roofs above other roofs. The ground is a theory no one has proven.
The son has a question. The question is why did you leave before you arrived.
The father has an answer. The answer is a glass of milk thrown from the roof. It shatters. It doesn’t shatter. It becomes a bird. The bird becomes the question again.
Family is a word we use when we’re too tired to explain the war.
There is a boss. The boss is not at work. The boss is inside the mother’s chest, sitting at a desk made of her ribs, signing permission slips for emotions she’s not allowed to feel.
The boss says productivity is grief with a schedule.
The mother says I just wanted to make dinner.
The boss stamps denied on the milk. The milk boils over. The stove is still her childhood. The house fills with smoke that smells like 1987.
A friend enters the frame. But the friend is not a friend. The friend is the version of yourself you abandoned at fourteen when you learned that softness was currency you couldn’t afford.
The friend says remember when we used to think.
Yes. The thinker. We used to think.
Now thinking is outsourced. The thoughts arrive pre-packaged. Some assembly required. Batteries not included. The batteries are your attention span. You sold them for dopamine hits and a vague sense of belonging.
The thinker is dead. Long live the scroller.
On the roof, the father takes off the Beats.
The silence underneath the silence speaks. It says you were never supposed to understand. You were supposed to participate.
Death enters wearing a suit made of family photographs.
I’m not here for you, Death says. I’m here for the version of you that could have been happy.
The father laughs. That one died years ago.
I know, Death says. I’m just here to file the paperwork.
The paperwork is a poem. The poem is a receipt. The receipt is for three wine bottles, two regrets, one orgasm that felt like a funeral, and a lifetime supply of almost.
Orgasm. Let’s talk about orgasm.
Not the body’s orgasm. The soul’s orgasm. That moment when everything makes sense and nothing does and you are both the drop and the ocean and you don’t care which one you are because caring is the thing that kept you from feeling this before.
The mother had one once. In 1993. In a bathtub. Alone. With the door locked. With the milk boiling on the stove. With the three wine bottles empty. With the two men she loved asleep in different cities. With the one man who didn’t exist whispering through the steam.
She never told anyone. Not even herself. Especially not herself.
The son knows. The son has always known. Because sons don’t come from bodies. They come from the secrets their mothers were too afraid to scream.
The roof is getting smaller. Or the father is getting larger. Hard to tell. Scale is just ego with a ruler.
Two men stand beside him now. One who stayed. One who ran.
The one who stayed says I’m tired.
The one who ran says I’m tired.
The father, who is not a father, who is a thought, who is a glitch in the mother’s milk, says I’m both of you. I’m neither of you. I’m the space between the choice.
The woman appears. She is the mother. She is the wife. She is the daughter who once stood on a roof herself, wondering where her father parked the car.
The car is in the kitchen.
The car has always been in the kitchen.
The car is a heart. The kitchen is the chest. We’ve all been driving around inside bodies that forgot they were just vehicles.
Black Beats back on. The beat drops. The drop is a birth. The birth is a death. The death is the mother dropping the milk. The milk shattering on the floor that is also a roof. The roof that is also a floor. The son looking up which is also looking down.
Friend whispers the thinker is back.
Thinker says what if meaning was never lost. What if meaning was hiding in the glitch.
The milk spreads across the floor. It forms a shape. The shape is a family. Father. Mother. Son. Two men. One woman. Three wine bottles. A boss signing papers. A friend waving goodbye. A thinker thinking. Death doing paperwork. Orgasm vibrating at 528 hertz.
The mother looks at the milk. The milk looks back.
Clean it up, says the boss.
Let it dry, says the friend.
Let it become something, says the thinker.
She does nothing. That is the holiest act.
The father steps off the roof.
Not down. Sideways. Into a frequency where the car was never lost. Where the kitchen is just a kitchen. Where the milk never boils because the stove was never her childhood. Where the three wine bottles are just wine bottles and the two men are just one man who found a way to stay and run at the same time.
The son speaks for the first and last time.
The milk never spoils if you drink it before you’re born.
A heartbeat.
Heavy breathing.
A father stands on a roof.
Not because he wants to jump.
Because he forgot where he parked the car.
The sound of milk boiling.
Father on the roof forgot where he parked
The car is in the kitchen where the memories are dark
Son is six and forty-seven all at once
Time is just a liar doing what it wants
Mother stirs the pot but the pot ain’t real
Boiling all her childhood trying not to feel
Three wine bottles empty three versions of a man
One who stayed one who ran one she never had
Milk never spoils if you drink it before you’re born
Milk never spoils in the eye of the storm
Listen to the sound of the milk boiling over
Listen to the sound we’re never getting older
Milk milk milk on the floor
Milk milk milk become something more
Boss inside her chest signing papers made of bone
Permission slips for feelings she was never shown
Friend is just the ghost of who you used to be
Thinker sold his batteries for a dopamine dream
Death showed up in photographs said I’m not here for you
I’m here for the version that was happy and true
The receipt says three bottles two regrets one cry
One orgasm like a funeral asking why
Milk never spoils if you drink it before you’re born
Milk never spoils in the eye of the storm
Listen to the sound of the milk boiling over
Listen to the sound we’re never getting older
Milk milk milk on the floor
Milk milk milk become something more
She does nothing
That is the holiest act
He steps sideways off the roof
And he never comes back
The car is a heart
The kitchen is the chest
We drive around in bodies
That forgot to rest
A heartbeat
Heavy breathing
Father on a roof
The milk is still boiling
The milk is still boiling
The milk is still boiling
Drink it before you’re born
