They lost her to the rainy days.
They found her on the hardwood floor.
I lost her to the morning haze.
I found her on the lofty shore.
She was contrite for the world to see,
but never the wiser among the sea.
Crest after crest broke against her catacomb,
valiant and restless,
along the floor bed her thoughts roamed.
Communications aren't going through.
A dead sea floating around her Irises.
When all became clear,
she would not,
how lips parted like the older times,
only for no refugee to be declared.
I do not suspect she lacks the clarity,
but many of you however,
lack her frequencies.
They jump in waves,
turning still for but mere seconds,
jumping high again against the sterile glass.
They found her on the Radio waves.
They lost her to the obscure.
I found her on the digital grave.
I lost her to my paramour.
