"I have lost"

Wreck

I have lost my hand on the wheel of my 94' Camry.

I have lost the hallucinated, watery, wavy asphalt laid before my by overweight, lazy construction workers.

I have lost the line line line line pattern in my left periphery.

I have lost the sense in my feet to push down on the brakes and avoid the cactus running towards me, his arms sticking out in preparation for a tackle.

I have lost some of that crimson gold contained in the safes of my veins, oozing from two untrimmed nostrils.

I have lost that feeling in my chest, that beating on my ribcage that lets my brain know I'm still ticking.

I have lost sight of the brown-blue-black colors surrounding me in a haze of foggy gray.

I have lost that clicking in my head that tells my mouth to inhale the dry air pumping from the a/c.

I have lost a few brain cells when the hood of my car greets the cactus in a metal-crunching bear hug.

I have lost several more brain cells when that cactus runs past the hood and through the glass to embrace my awaiting face.

I have lost my tongue when the airbag slaps my chin upward, clamping cracked teeth on that thick pink meat we use for kissing.

I have lost my brain entirely. Fleeing from its imprisonment of my skull and on the lam next to a rock thirty feet from the wreckage.

I have lost consciousness hours ago.