Where do all the lost balloons go? Where do they fly away to as they slip from palms of little hands? How big is the sky that the balloons float and float, higher and higher until they disappear? I like to think they sit somewhere above the clouds. Maybe they collect in a massive space so grand that all the lost balloons could never fill it in a million years. A colorful world in the sky that the moon watches over as his own. I like to think somewhere above the clouds are mountains of lost balloons of all colors and sizes, their ribbons and strings intertwined to make beautiful braids or even beautifully messy knots that no one could ever untangle. I think that would be much more meaningful than those balloons that don’t accidentally slip from wrists. A life avoiding safety pins and long nails and dark soles under heavy feat. They sit in houses and stare at lonely people wearing masks that read “Happiness” and “Congratulations,” people checking text messages and reciting the same conversations about school/work. Repeat. They end up in trash cans next to empty bottles of vodka and shredded bills. Maybe the balloons aren’t lost at all. Maybe they run away.