The Last Pour

I didn't notice the box was empty

until I poured and the milk turned gray.

Not brown like coffee,

not rich like cereal should taste—

just dust suspended,

the contents replaced

by what was left behind,

by absence wearing the shape

of something real.

I'd been eating from this box for days.

Maybe weeks.

Each morning my hand reached,

each morning I poured,

and I never once checked

to see if there was anything

actually falling into the bowl.

Just the ritual.

Just the motion.

Just my body remembering

what breakfast is supposed to be

even when the box is already hollow.

The milk clouds over.

I can't see through it.

I stir it and the dust dissolves

into something that tastes like cardboard

and my own inattention,

like I've been consuming nothing

and calling it a meal,

like I've been pretending

the whole time.

I pour it down the sink.

The dust swirls, darkens, disappears.

And I'm left holding an empty box,

finally noticing

that it's been empty for a while.