It is common knowledge

to use a map when one is lost,

but our map is lost itself.

Scribbles on several pages,

and the pages spread across the floor,

old paper torn at the edges.

Some say the map is unorganized,

for who would have any desire

to place it back together, to mend it.

Others say it is a treasure map,

an opportunity to find what

we both are looking for.

To us, the map is a memory,

a painful memory to guide off,

for we were once treasure.

The lines circle into nothingness,

and the destinations are scribbles,

blank writing on covered pages.

To follow it is impossible

for the lines lead to nothing

but where we belong.

What is wealth compared to memories?

For these broken papers

are richer than anything one can find.