The flashbacks,

sinusoidally like snakes

my dearest friends,

lack proper context as they

present themselves,

as they show me events: for real for sure,

I worry they might be; to a degree – true,

I fold my gaze inwards

onwards and downwards,

spiraling mindlessly into the

shards of broken glass,

I bury my unshaven face deep

head first

in the quicksands

of my mind,

wanting flashbacks of love

but none is coming