A switch flipped and part of me died.

The part in question— unknown to me.
This death did not leave behind a body.

Or a shadow. Or a silhouette in the grass.

I am trying to find the missing piece again,
fingers fumbling for a switch on the walls
of every place I’ve ever called home. I search
every dusted-over corner, every bloodstained
diary page, every squinty-eyed photograph
where I am still young enough to be held
without fear of how a tight grip on my arm
would engrave me— what sort of bruise
would be made when the flash blinds us.

What is it that I lost? Was it time? My prime?
A certain kind of love that only happens once,
though we try our best to replicate a counterfeit?

Or just something to believe?

It happened so fast. A switch flipped and I felt
a strange becoming. A flip of the stomach, some
funny churn, and then a pit, a cavern of dread.

If only it left a trail of breadcrumbs. A cryptic
love note. A shape in the cushion, still warm.

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