Stolen Lost

Lost is stolen
from you.

A slot for lack,
a called need
for the things you
can never name
nor have.

Tossed disorientation
drifts in the hidden
sail of a more obscure,
accessible gleam,

the sobs silent amplitudes
of here, take this, suffocate
rest, that spasmic torment,

cure a deadened ripple
of a smile, yes this is
real, you tell yourself.

Skip a stoned tone
on the surface of your
voice, inaudible creature.

Echoes are lost things
anyway.

Numb tingles,
inaccessible gleams,
skipped stones already
sunk before the resonant
splash.

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