The bowl moved in slow motion over the edge

The bowl moved in slow motion over the edge,

leaving a trail of cold milk on the wood.

I sat on the sofa, a ghost on a ledge,

and watched it descend as well as I could.

It didn't just break; it opened its chest,

showing the grit and the unglazed white bone.

The soggy flakes scattered, a mess in the west,

and I left it right there on the floor, all alone.