Still

I still carry the sense of losing something. As if I had a tiny bleeding wound, a cut so small it's gotten lost and blended in the anonymity of my body, and therefore I can not find it. I see the blood, though, scattered around the most diverse places: doorknobs, sheets, counters, lips, paintings, social gatherings, pieces of conversation... I leave a mark on everything I touch.
I still carry the sense of losing something insidiously, as if I had a tiny wound I couldn’t find, so I sit here, patiently, and wait.