What They Left Behind

I found it under the couch,

wedged in that space

where things go to disappear,

and I recognized the marks

before I even pulled it out,

the specific indent

of a mouth

I know,

a bite pattern

that belongs to

someone

who used to be here.

I can't throw it away.

It's still useful,

still functional,

still the thing it was supposed to be,

except now it's also

evidence,

a small object that says:

someone was here,

someone put their teeth

on this,

someone left their mark

and kept living

as if the mark

didn't mean anything,

as if teeth marks

in a thing

were just

part of the wear and tear

of keeping something

that matters.

I put it back

where I found it.

I'm not ready

to decide

what it means yet,

whether it's a reminder

of tenderness

or a reminder

that tenderness

ends,

whether keeping it

means I'm keeping something

or just

avoiding the moment

when I have to admit

that what's left

is just

teeth marks

on a thing

and a person

who isn't here

to explain them.

The object stays under the couch.

I keep the door to that room closed.