Lost on You
I’m lost on you like truffles to a nose-deaf dog.
We connect like magnets flipped the wrong way.
The same substance, and
if done right–inseparable.
And it hurts to think that we dug such shallow seed holes,
but watered so thoroughly.
And the thing that grew had roots, but not deep.
Had leaves–and, once, even made a small fruit
that we plucked, to preserve energy for future years.
And you know all of this
the way a blind child loves a favorite book.
You don’t know I’m grieving
a thing I haven’t even lost yet.
I’m lost on you
like a breath you barely catch.
I realize it’s unfair that I’m already letting go.
Is the rug so large that we can sweep under it forever?
Haven’t you seen it long approaching like a tsunami
pulling out to sea, the waves rising in slow motion.
Didn’t you hear the alarms we raised,
when the earth shook for days?
And still, you go to the edge, and run your toes along the waterline,
wondering where the sea has pulled back to.