In stilted moonlight
while the clowns
and comics sing
their soliloquies
to an unseen
audience
and insomnia reigns,
beneath my cellar door
I keep you
in memories
and jars.
I am no
Frankenstein,
creating monsters
from parts.
It is only because
you cannot be
saved
in photobooks
or stories.

rip all my hairs out hoping they access a brain cell to help me wipe my memory like a shaun white, snow tidal wipeout

strand by strand hoping to find a destresser to pull the plug of my brain's photobooks

you catalyze my grief and a cobweb nostalgia
silk an admired commodity yet **** out by a creature who has it handed to it at aggregated birth

stuck in this mess
but i have my fist clenched around a web which is as adhesive as a 48 hour hardened glue

glued to you but i'm acetone fused and it's only a serum's distance to an isle of distant cries , haunting melodies of  f# major vocal hymns and

a sand filled paradise where wild life flies and quick sand awaits to offer a gorgeous, satin, embodiment of warmth.

yours deceivingly..

that good old horrendous feeling

Sometimes,
all that's left of a friend is the wallet they bought you for your birthday, in the bittersweet smile that appears on your face when you remember that moment.

Sometimes,
they are only in the stories you tell. Their name escapes your lips before you even realize they were there.

Sometimes,
they are in the little moments of regret.
The dull pain between so very few heartbeats before they're gone again.

Sometimes,
they are in shelves of shops,
in "they would like it" thoughts before you realize you can't even remember the last time you've met.

Sometimes,
they are in the moments when you can.

But now they only exist in old photobooks, in fading memories.

In dreams, their faces side by side complete strangers.

They are everywhere.

But really, they are nowhere.