At age seven,

Loss is the ball I threw into the air

But it didn't land here but there

Into my crusty old neighbors' lawn

Which I would not enter even through I thought he was gone

At age fourteen,

Loss is the phone I promised to keep

That I swore I had left in my mothers' jeep

I searched and searched but could not find

So I had to replace it with 3 allowances combined

At age twenty-one,

Loss is the memory of the night before

I got black out drunk and passed out on the floor

Then awoke tucked under a strangers sheets

So I quietly snuck out into the streets