Today I used your toothbrush.
I had already packed mine away for the trip,
and you had forgotten yours here.
It’s softer than mine,
with a pretty red handle.
It carried the taste of the flavor you use.
Making me brush longer than I have before,
getting behind each tooth with scrutiny,
like you were there watching me.
I was nervous I’d be too rough,
that I might somehow ruin its integrity,
leave too much of myself in it,
until it ceased to be yours anymore.
Today I used your toothbrush,
because I hoped it would taste like you.
I was right.
So tomorrow, I will too.