Lost and Found

Lost and Found.jpg

If love, so often, is lost, how come nobody ever finds it? You never come across it on a street, like a penny Lincoln side up.

Maybe it's not lost. Maybe our verbiage is all wrong. Love could run away, I suppose, like a teenager desperate to break free from Mom and Dad's claws.

Or, if it's a living thing, love could die. What if it's like dogs you know, those scraggly country dogs still in tune with nature who sneak away from home to die in peace alone. Maybe your love, my love, our love walked away on its own accord and we didn't even notice until we combed through the woods by the creek and found it lying there lifeless.

Things are lost out of carelessness. A lack of attention, just like "Where did I put my keys?" Things die from neglect. So which is it: Did our love get lost, or did it die?