lost

a tangle of brambles looking the same in every direction, a heat that is the same every way you turn the fan.

The traffic lights turn green but i'm not moving. I'm still still.

The map looks the same every which way i turn it.

lost is the feeling of noise and disco lights and quiet nights. It is brown light on a blue tarp or a chocolate bar.

In the afternoon, it is neither day nor night, lit nor unlit, cold nor warm, sleep nor rest. It is neither shy nor forward. Neither timeless nor timed either.

But it is peaceful. Being lost is peaceful when it's not agitation.

I look at the lazy molten traffic.

Why is it that you can make me cry like no one else ever could.