Maybe they slip away at night,
carried in the quiet pockets of the wind,
to a place where broken watches still tick,
and unread letters finally find their eyes.
Maybe they sink
to the bottom of our hearts,
changing faces until we no longer recognise them—
a laugh, a street, a name
we swear we’ve heard before.
Or maybe…
lost things never leave.
They just wait,
patiently,
for us to stop running long enough
to see they’ve been here
all along.
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