poetinside

I used to think maybe I didn’t live in this world. I thought perhaps I lived with the lost things, though not those that haunt us with their absence like dead lovers or bypassed opportunities, just those trinkets that seem to vanish without much more than a cursory bemusement at their disappearance. 

I conjured up this whole other world for myself, the lost world. There I lived with the single missing sock from the pair, backs of earrings, hair ties, pens and the K of my grandmother’s scrabble set that fell to the hardwood floor one day and was never seen again. I thought myself forgotten, and rather easily replaced.

But you dug me out from the creases in the sofa, sought me behind cobwebbed shelves, under table legs and in last year’s backpack. You told me that I deserved to be remembered, cared for, needed indispensably. 

I lived with the lost things until you came and found me.