Three Months After The Breakup

Now, in the aftermath of everything that happened between us, you are to me the gum I press around the edge of my water glass. You are wrenched out of shape, distorted from that which was previously stiff, yet flexible, finely edged, but now wrinkled, like our grandparents— all of mine are dead. You, as well as the gum, possess no taste, and yet inexplicably I want to place you in my mouth and work you with my teeth. You stick, you stay there, on the glass, in a fashion that appears precarious, but your balance does not depend on your distribution of weight. It depends instead, on your crushed solidity, your barnacle viscosity, your willingness to depend on something so tasteless as water, and the satisfaction of only fractionally blocking something so pivotal to my existence.