The blue plastic faded

The blue plastic, faded,

sat in the old gear bag.

Pulled it out, saw the mark,

a crescent, like a flag.

Not mine, these teeth,

not my particular bite.

Hers, I think,

from that long, bright

trip.

A thirst, a quick grip,

a shared sip, a breath.

It’s been years since that death,

of friendship, or whatever it was.

But the indentations remain,

a small, sharp testament.

To hunger, to trust, to a moment

I thought was meant to last.