First we lose them, then we lose ourselves.
Past the church and somehow we’re getting lost
between bodies which tickle our feet even though
they’re wrapped up tightly in sheets.
We call out for the other friend, the one who
didn’t die and she leads us into another
We scream as people tarnish memories.
We want everything left exactly as it was.
We lose ourselves because we’re
stupid enough to jump.
There are a lot of us now:different lives
built around a scrapbook.
He sews up our airways but it is
a slow death. We wait and we pretend
to have passed already.
We don’t want him to come back to check.
We lose them again and again
but we only lose ourselves once.