Toothbrush

The paste begins to
lather,
at the corners
of my lips,
till nothing's
left
but the white froth
coating my face.
I stare at my reflection,
my eyes look wide,
my mouth looks ill,
the bristles of the toothbrush
massaging my teeth.
I sip the tap,
cool water
gurgles in my throat,
I spit,
and gurgle
and spit some more.
Suddenly its little neighbor,
the pink version of mine,
stares at me unused,
and the memories swarm back in.
A tear rolls down my cheek,
as I place my toothbrush alongside his,
once, when it was all so easy.
I take his toothbrush,
bristles barely touched,
and I
save his toothbrush,
because maybe one day
he
will
need
to
use
it
again.