What Remains

My roommate left a glass.

One cube inside it,

mostly transparent now,

the edges rounded down

like someone spent time

sanding them.

I don't move the glass.

I watch the cube

get smaller.

By evening it's just water,

a dark spot on the counter

where the wood drinks it in.

The fridge keeps humming

its steady, useless song.

I stand there

like I'm supposed to remember something.

The cube is gone.

I didn't save it.