Where does a thought go

once it’s been forgotten?

If I found the hidden world

for lost thoughts,

would I befriend them? Would I


I would like to ask them

if they remember choosing the color of the walls,

or if they realize that the paint is fading with memory,

and if they care about either.

I want to ask:

When was the last time the daisies drank,

and how long has it been since they laughed?

I want to ask

if they feel abandoned,



Do they know they have been forgotten?

Do they believe they are lost forever?

If I met a lost thought,

would I bring it home,

make it my own,

turn it into something beautiful?

If I met a lost thought,

I wonder if I’d see myself.

If a lost thought met me,

would it bring me home,

make me its own,

turn me into something beautiful?

Perhaps I am a lost thought myself.

I wonder if I remember

picking the paint for the walls of my heart,

or if I’ve watered my roses today.

If I found this hidden world

with its chipped paint that no one chose

and the flowers they forget to grow,

I wonder if it would feel like home.

But perhaps

there is a difference between all these lost thoughts

and my own lost self—

if I am lost,

I will be found again.

Not abandoned,



This lostness is but temporary;

and now that I put pen to paper,

I know that I won’t find myself in lost places.

I will be found

where the sunflowers grow.

So, goodnight, hidden world.

I no longer search for you.

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