The Unsprung

It was just a cleaning, nothing dire,

three weeks past, a small fire

I let burn out. Found the card today,

crumpled, under junk mail, hid away.

Just a bit of paper, then, and now

a dull, persistent ache somehow

settles in my back left molar, deep.

A tiny cost, but secrets it does keep.

Of all the things I let just slip on by,

the small missed calls, the quiet lie.

The ripples spread, a silent, growing stain,

just for that extra hour, lost to rain.