Veil

“I lost my face somewhere,” I whisper from out my veil.

“Have you looked in the chest of drawers?”

“Have you checked in the pantry?”

“Did you leave it in your car?”

It’s not in the drawers. It’s not in the pantry. It’s not in the car.

I lost my face one day. I wonder where it’s gone. I lost my face one day, and now this veil I don.

“Is it on the mountain top?”

“Or deep within the sea?”

“Perhaps it’s in your room?”

“Maybe,” I say, “there is no me.”

Maybe I’m lost, not to be found. Maybe I’m lost, save for the sound . . .

. . . of my voice whispering through the veil.

“I lost my face somewhere.”