Yoghurt

A creamy tornado
mulled amongst the strawberries.
Licking my finger, I remembered
how you hated my childish paintings
with the milky slop.

A silver spoon was your tool,
you'd measure the jellied fruit
equally with the gunky yoghurt,
and complain fresh tasted past
it's sell-by date.

Our bemused expression
was our only common-ground
as we watched our pots fill
with misunderstood air.

You hated my freedom;
your habit addled me.
That's why you finished your
yoghurt and left.