missing_poster ovenbird Held in the arms of a threadbare recliner our bodies share warmth like a tumbler of whiskey. There’s a map spread out across our laps and I trace a route with my finger while my head finds its home in the curve of your neck. Your face once graced the side of milk cartons—solemn eyes and a serious mouth, dark hair falling across your forehead. Underneath, one word: MISSING. But here you are, wearing a shirt of blue-grey flannel, and I can feel the air we share moving in and out of your lungs, and while it tried its best, the world wasn’t fast enough to rub out our names on the tattered page of tomorrow. If we are lost it is in a world of our own making. The bags are packed and when the sun rises we’ll be gone. 260118 what's it to you? who go blather from