Honey Circles

I bought the box on impulse.

The same brand I ate at eight,

when the kitchen was yellow

and my mother was still there.

The paper crackled exactly as I remembered.

I poured the milk.

Watched the circles float.

They looked right.

The first spoonful was wrong.

Too sweet. Like someone had engineered

sugar to taste like breakfast,

like memory could be replicated

in a factory in New Jersey.

The texture was worse—

it softened too fast,

turned to paste,

like the cereal was apologizing

for disappointing me.

I wanted the morning back.

The light through the window.

The way one bowl could satisfy

everything.

Instead I got this—

something that used to be good,

now a stranger wearing the old name,

a reminder that nothing stays

what we need it to be.

I poured it out.

Left the bowl on the counter.

Watched the milk turn gray

with the ghost of sweetness.

I'm not buying it again.

Some memories are better left

broken.