What Sticks Around

I found it stuck to the underside,

hardened but not hard,

a piece of me

from some other day

I don't remember chewing.

I pulled it free and held it,

still warm from the wood,

from the heat underneath my desk

where I've been sitting,

thinking.

It had a shape.

It had texture.

It had my teeth marks in it.

I should have thrown it away.

Instead I held it,

felt the way it softened

in my palm,

the way it was both

completely disgusting

and completely mine.

This is what lingers—

not the thought,

not the moment,

but the thing you forgot

you left behind,

the evidence

that you were here,

that you consumed something,

that you have a body

that does this,

that leaves things

stuck to the underside

of your life.

I threw it away.

It took me longer than it should have.