Early Onset Constellations

It's not the what; it's the how.
How you will lose your true love,
Your way though the woods,

The name you once gave yourself,
The records you kept,
Your sense of joy in the world.

There's no art to it.
The world is full and each loss
Is required for something new
To squeeze on through and be lost

In turn, you too. The dark lawn
Is heavy with stars
And Indian Summer warmth.
Barefoot, you stand, look up, lost.