Every time I stop typing

Every time I stop typing you are there
Throwing me in a knapsack and carrying me
Down the street of my past memory
Crying. Couldn’t be more sadistic or kinder.
Pajamas, playgrounds, tuxes at a party,
Jess, Heaz, Ross, Jaz, Beck and Mir,
I’ve constructed a trance that reminds
Me of what was and still is in all its glory
And cancels my omnipresent burden and worry
That production is the only good use of time.
Recalling you and me: our one, now separate, story:
Composed music of the soul that intricately rhymes.