They are not lost the photos - those docusnaps indelible chemicals of time polaroid, 35mm, blow ups a film of ages dodging the viewfinder stills that moved to blur eyes shut with the shutter a grin, grim as the contortion of that smile command. Not lost just let slip the grasp. Redacted cut aways of regret like throwaway lines the tongue spat before tact. I prefer that I was never there.
For Merril’s Poetics prompt: Are you listening, we are asked to choose two from a given list of podcast titles for inclusion in the poem. Not Lost and I was Never there are my selections.