Easy to Find
I have often looked inside my drawers without knowing why. Something called out. Seek me and you shall find, but when I obey I'm confounded by memory's fleeting ways. Hands immerse and return awkwardly empty like a runaway child when no one came after them.
I know there is something I seek that hides from me so I can't think about what I lack. It is, however, and this is the point, too damn powerful to be silent and still. Besides, I know I lack it because I miss it.
I miss it. Whatever “it” is. Whatever I need it to be it is not that. It can never be anything but what it is. And so I search in drawers and closets absent of why, driven like a machine whose switch has been thrown just because it can.
I miss it. I wish it could find me. Maybe I need to stay put long enough for it to do so. Now there's a switch. Let the powerful “it” seek me out. But for how long must I wait? And how will I recognize it should it find me?
There must be names for this condition that end in phobia. Damn, I hate that suffix.
It all starts with a sense of wonder and ends in a sense of emptiness. God, I wish you could find me here. I'll tuck myself in a little drawer right out in the open. I won't bury myself under incidentals. I'll be right on top. Easy to find. Do you need me for anything? I hope so because I need you for everything.