No Title

I want to keep these flashes snug,
protected in the blanket
of the warm August nights
from whence they emerged.

Windows down, Rick Astley blaring,
you demanding that I listen, listen to
THAT VOICE,
my God. Majestic.
Bigger than the man,
bigger than this whole summer.

Has it been six years since I heard from you?
I stopped trying to glean meaning
from those final messages long ago,
maybe the Year of Our Lord 2009,
around the time I curled into a ball
on the living room floor, making
the most unholy noises,
grieving my own projected losses.
None of them came to fruition.
In case you were wondering.

Where are you, I wonder,
other than right here
in this corner of my limbic attic,
firing away at random,
bringing you to me in the middle of Panera Bread.

Where are you, really, other than in my memories?

I’m dealing so much with memory now, Keith.
It’s all I can think about.
There are proteins which can destroy them, memories.
Proteins banding together to make you forget all of the things that made you.
I pray nightly to Something Out There that they won’t get mine.
To lose you again, and not even realize it.
Come back. Stay.

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