A crushed peppermint on the pharmacy floor,
pressed into the linoleum by a thousand tired heels.
It looks like a pink tooth from a very small god,
bleeding sugar into the grey wax.
You were buying creams for a rash you couldn't name,
your eyes the color of a wet parking lot in Oulu.
We stood in the queue, smelling of rubbing alcohol
and the quiet desperation of a Tuesday afternoon.
I reached for your hand, but found a damp tissue instead.
We stood there in the fluorescent hum,
wondering which one of us was actually leaking.