What gets lost

I found it caught

on a branch,

the chain knotted,

the tag hanging—a parch

of memory

someone wore on their chest.

Military. The story

was worn to a test

of legibility, the name

almost gone from skin

and sweat and shame

of carrying something thin

enough to fall off,

heavy enough to matter.

I didn't know enough

to matter,

but I could see

how it mattered to someone,

how the chain's debris

had left a mark—the sum

of carrying something close,

keeping it real,

something to hold most

precious and real.

I could search for them.

I could try to return it.

Instead, I held the gem

of their loss, didn't earn it

back. Just hung it

on the branch

the way I found it, and quit

looking. Sometimes a branch

is where things rest,

and sometimes the best

thing is to let loss

stay lost.