Small Discomforts

Hours later and my foot still remembers—

the puddle, the cold seeping up through the weave,

the fabric suddenly heavy against my skin,

the way it clung like something alive.

I changed it immediately, that small mercy,

peeled the sock off and threw it in the shower,

but the feeling won't dry out.

The memory of dampness is worse than dampness.

At my desk I keep shifting my weight,

trying to convince myself the sensation is gone,

but my toes remember. My arch remembers.

The cotton held the cold and now my body

holds the memory of cotton holding cold.

It's not pain. It's not even uncomfortable now.

It's the ghost of discomfort,

the way your tongue keeps finding

a space where a tooth used to be,

keeps checking if it's still gone.

My sock is dry. My foot is dry.

But something in me is still damp,

still wearing yesterday's puddle,

still reaching for the feeling

of something that's already over.