I am not yet lost.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful though.
Just getting lost.
The thought of it soothes.
Once lost, I would be in no rush to be found.
Just let me collect some rust like a penny that slipped out of your pocket when you when camping in the
Or let my edges soften like your favorite postcard used a bookmark in the old hard bound copy of a Gabriel Garcia Marquez novel you love but years later still have never seemed to finish.
I can gently fade like the label on a can of beefaroni, your favorite growing up, that was misplaced in the back of cupboard, and now waiting… waiting… waiting for that perfect sometime in the future when you will savor it as a second childhood.