The Name Worn Off, Or, A Small Weight

Cleaning out this box of college

ghosts, faded photos,

a syllabus for something

I barely remember, a B, I think.

And then, this.

A small metal circle,

cool against my thumb.

Tarnished, of course,

but the weight is still there.

The name, though,

gone. Worn right down

to a whisper of silver,

not even a dent for a letter.

Just smooth.

Like he was never here,

or like I imagined him,

all slobbery kisses

and the clink of this against

his food bowl.

It fits in the crease of my palm,

a little ache.

Just a piece of metal,

or, I don't know,

everything.