The past is difficult to shake.
It follows you, sticks to you.
An airhose snaking to a bathysphere.
A contrail streaking after a jet.
Marshmallow sticking to your fingers.
Oh, you can wash it off,
brush your teeth and wipe your face,
erase all traces of the s'more you ate,
but you'll still smell like campfire.
And after you shower, twice,
and it's well and truly gone,
you'll still remember the taste
and want another one.