someone told me that you were
bending the books darkest corner
where it curls beneath the finger nail.
picking away the brail from your
lip bones leaving trails of what wondering.
even in trying, remembrance recedes
through my skulls loop hole, left
only with a hollow knocking.
there is no bench of delight,
no milky way resting firmly
beneath the roots.
no hey how ya doin,
terribly confused best
friend of the blues.

in time we find that the mind is even capable of
rewriting the moments that could not
have been traded for the world,
so we leave them behind.