I can’t remember which toothbrush is mine
So I grab one from the drawer, one I think is mine, and start to scrub.
I’m calling your number as the bristles scour off layers of plaque and the Caesar salad dressing
from lunch while I waited for you at the table
And the bristles tug at the sugar swirls from the Skittles
I had in the car on the way home from oblivion
And I finally feel a click and I expect to hear your voice again but it’s not you…only a computerized invitation and I’m waiting through the words to leave a message at the tone for
But your voicemail is full.