TWO A.M.

I lost my body in the fight for my body.

I lost my brother because his body hated him so much.

I lost time.

I lost the way and was happy and the moon was above me.

I lost the feeling in my fingers.

I lost some friends but found a secret room in my apartment.

I lost the chandelier light behind your shoulder blade.

I lost 1975.

I lost the hat you gave me and have never been the same.

I lost the polar bears and I lost the tigers and I lost the elephants.

I lost the ship at sea.

I lost the bottle.

I lost the rib that God gave and the rib that God took away.

I lost the sheet you had cut the two holes in for my eyes to see through.

I lost all my money.

I lost nothing that might have kept me alive.

I lost the light in the puddle with my face in it and a stick.

I lost the way to be with you.

I lost the wind coming through my window and the bed below it.

I lost blood.

I lost blood and stars and the fifth grade.

I lost paint-by-numbers and the color yellow and blue make.

I lost all my fillings.

I lost a fight in which I paid cash to fall and not get up and never get up.