HM THEMES

For Micah.

In total, we spend a year of our entire lives looking for lost things. Lost keys, the other sock, that five dollars you swore you slipped into your pocket. But I don’t know how many times I’ve gone searching for love between the cushions of the sofa, the dusty dark beneath my bed. Don’t know how many times my fingers reach and stretch around air and the occasional iodized penny. More often than not I am consistently coming up with empty palms and an annoyance that has nothing and everything to do with the fact that I was just on all fours searching in vain for what is both rare and abundant in this life. “Retrace your steps. Where were you last?” This is my mantra for all of two minutes and then I’m off again, tearing apart my closet. But then. But then. Love isn’t what’s lost. It’s me. It’s us, all of us. Those who are lucky, those who know, take love and wrap it around their finger like a reminder to take that outfit to the dry cleaner’s on Tuesday. There are no missing objects. Just unsystematic searchers. I know we’re all eager. We’re starving. And yet. We’re probably looking right at it. Now see.

September 7th ∙ 105
tagged: prose  personal  belgards 
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