May

Inaccurate,

the memories linger

longer

than they

should.

Etched into

the gray matter,

held captive by neurons,

to be rediscovered

during

May drives and

Texas thunderstorms.

Nestled deeply

under layers,

a shadow,

you are an

artifact

in a thrift store flannel

unwashed and

fucking perfect.

You are old Austin,

man.

In an act of

solidarity with my

attempts to forget,

the universe

tried to hide you,

buried you in the folds,

burnt that shit down

literally.

burned the coffee shop I

found you in

when you learned I liked my coffee

not. Too. Hot.

Burned the dancehall

where we didn't dance

but I dreamed of it in tune to

the jukebox

but where we sat on shaky

barstools

day drinking

shuttered the

all night diner where you

told me who you were-

the outlaw

turned hero

turned turncoat

the cafe-

closed.

The house-

sold.

All of it gone

and yet

you remain

like a relic that serves

no purpose.