The Slow Spill

The jar slips—

not with a crash, but slow

like syrup pulling down a comb,

a stubborn trickle amber and thick.

It puddles on the scratched countertop,

catching the last kitchen light,

sticky as a bad excuse,

and slow as time in this small room.

I watch it thicken, harden,

a spill that won’t quite be wiped clean,

proof that even the sweetest things

can catch you when you’re careless.