the city

Imaginary Islands

I dream of an island,
where all the things I've lost wash up.
Homework papers I never turned in,
toys I lost years ago.

On the shore, you'll find the small things,
like the multicolored pen I lost in first grade,
or the other sock from my favorite pair,
or maybe even some of my writing.

But as you go deeper into the island,
things get darker.
In the middle is my favorite old theater,
which I never lost,
but is lost to everyone else.

Two treehouses sit there too,
in the city of lost things.
They were my favorite as a child,
and I only saw them once before forgetting where I found them.

In those rickety old treehouse,
and in the theater that's falling apart,
my friends live there,
all the ones I've lost through the years.

Internet friends I gradually stopped talking to,
acquaintances I eventually didn't greet,
and maybe even my old friendship group,
queens of the Isle of Lost Things.

And maybe one day,
I'll sort through that mess.
I'll learn how to send them to the Isle of Forgotten Things,
or maybe cast them off to Things-I've-Gotten-Over City.

But, silly me,
I've got imaginary islands.
Maybe that's why I'm insane,
and can't seem to keep my feet on the ground.