Find me, only to lose me again, would you please?

Tonight. I write only the mournful cries of a cold, empty heart.

Ask me not why I am saddened, for I do not know.

Therefore, cannot answer such a question.

 

I

      Feel

                      Alone

 

Yet I know I am not...

 

I cannot find an ounce of sunshine in the rain of my internal pains.

 

I

          Am

                        Drowned

 

Sunken yet not sank within these shallow waters, waters of dark, frozen, solitude.

How can it be shallow yet dark?

 

Near the surface is the meaning of such terms, and it shall be lit and warm, the sun does this.

 

Not in December....

 

Why does it always feel like December?

 

I feel like a worn out book, handed down a few too many generations.

 

Like a lost hitchhiker, down an icy, empty, dead end street.

 

Find me, lose me again. For I do the same to myself.

 

I am found in my words, yet lost in the pages I write.

 

Lose me in the storm, the roses, or lose me in the sea.

 

Yet, find me in the mid morning dew drops, the sun rays that shine through an old Scottish homes windows, find me in the words you read in the cold, dark night. Beside the fire you have made.

 

Lose me in the fog, the blades of grass, lose me in the rise of dawn.

 

Find me in the stars, the mist across the lonely lake, find me in the light houses search light, while a man reaches the shore once more. His long voyage now done, as his beloved awaits him eagerly.

 

Find me, lose me again.

 

It's all the same, for I am still me, and you are still you.

 

Lose me, find me again.

 

Whichever order suits you best, do so, for I am never changing.

 

In appearance perhaps.

 

In tone, most certainly.

 

Never in heart nor mind.

 

 

So, I implore, lose to find, and find to lose.