Lost Information

Lost Information Bureau
Step one: Prove that you are human.

If only it were that easy,
easy as typing in two words
with their letters slanting and wiggling and
knocking into each other like a row of little houses
made from mud and twigs.

Prove that I am human.
Yesterday, the world collapsed into a colorblind
state, and the only colored thing
was the fine dust of the creature's
wings; a tiny hyphen smeared across my palm,
crushed scales and
discarded lepidopter thoughts.
It lay limp in my hands, wings
glimmering, rising and falling slightly
like a million feathered tips waving in the wind.

And I felt as if I were pushed out of
my own body, as if I were a witness to
the whole scene, jotting down notes on
a clipboard.
Heart rate.
Temperature outside.
Slight breeze, north-northeast; cirrocumulus clouds.
Lepidopter situated region A3 of the left hand.

Yet I felt nothing. Not a stirring, not a whisper.
Just a curious silence, a heavy, gaping hush
like a wound.

Step two: Specify lost item...