My Vanished Self

I vanished last week.
I’d always wanted to.
But now I have,
I want to come back.

I was at my desk.
My chair was an uncomfortable feeling.
The fluorescent lights were accusing.

I stole reams of papers
From the copier,
Sellotaped them into a shroud
And disappeared.

They put posters up for me.
I saw one at the bus stop today.
‘Have you seen this man?’ the poster said —
The picture was blank.

I said to the woman
With the woven face: ‘that’s me’,
But her face had no buttons to see.

When I arrived at work
Someone was laughing in my place.
He knew how to talk and look
And wore a borrowed smile from a book.

‘That’s my uncomfortable feeling.’ I said.
But he just laughed at the fluorescent lights above my head.

I walked home.
But not even the rain sees me now —
It just falls right through.

© 2016 Occasional Dreams
In response to daily prompt: Vanish
Image: “déjeuner du matin” by Patrick Marioné / CC BY


4 thoughts on “My Vanished Self

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