The Underneath

Your keys went under.

You could see them,

just barely,

caught in the dark

against the wall,

so you got down,

got on your hands and knees,

crawled into the space

under the bed,

into the dust,

into the nothing

that accumulates

in places

people don't go.

Your hand reached.

And touched something soft.

Not your keys.

Something else.

Something that made you

stop moving,

made you

freeze,

made your fingers

go still

against whatever

this was.

You pulled it out.

Dust.

Your fingers gray with it.

And the thing—

a sweatshirt,

maybe,

or a t-shirt,

something soft,

something you didn't remember

having,

something you didn't remember

losing,

something that had been

living

in the darkness

under the bed,

waiting

for you

to reach

for something

else,

to reach

for what

you thought

you were looking for,

so that you

would find

what you

forgot

you had.

The dust settles on your fingers.

The shirt is in your hands.

It smells like

underneath,

like

time,

like

the space

where things

go

when you're

not paying attention,

when you're

moving

too fast,

when you're

living

your life

above the bed

and not

noticing

what's

accumulating

below.

Your keys

are still

under there,

are still

caught

against the wall,

are still

the thing

you came

for,

but your hands

are holding

this,

this

softness,

this

forgetting,

this

evidence

of a life

you didn't

know

you were

leaving

behind.