Spilled Poem by Za7ra Sulaiman

he drank her first—
not with reverence,
not like you would have—
but greedily,
as if the warmth in her cup
was his by birthright.

she poured herself
thinking love was milk,
white and kind and
cleansing,
but it curdled in his mouth,
left stains on her skin
you can still smell
if you dare breathe too deep.

you—
you would've held her glass
with trembling hands,
kissed the rim,
waited for permission.

but he drank.
and left the cup cracked.
a quiet betrayal
with no blood,
just a sweet sourness
that never washed out.

you weren't late.
you were just
not him.

and she—
she gave it
before she knew
what giving meant.