I lost a library card last Tuesday.
Lost two jackets to the wind before.
Lost a bus that sped right past me,
lost pencil tips ground down to dust.
Do you know how it feels to lose
a whole hour waiting in silence,
or how a sock’s absence haunts you,
its partner collapsed, folded in grief?
I lose names like pennies in couches.
Lose the sun when clouds are too bold.
Lost a friendship, once, to impatience;
lost sleep tracing shapes of regret.
But losing, I’ve learned, is an opening.
A letting go, fingers soft in surrender.
What’s gone isn’t always a disaster,
it makes space for whatever comes next.