the memory of you is like a hallway
the one I always go 'round but never really go down
'cause I already know what'll go down if I do...
I will reach out to you
and we will reminisce about the sweetness of the bliss
but see, the part I always miss is 'bout the blisters
the heat upon my neck when I found out 'bout how you
but I will still reach out
not because I miss you
but because I crave the toxins that you teach,
the poison that you preach
that perfect potent potion of scribe, scholar and street
with a swagger like a dagger that cuts my heart down deep
and leaves chasms in my mind where joy once lived...
I stand frozen at the edge of that hallway
here your memory thrives within the medial temporal lobe
contemplating should I visit the place I used to call home
should I reach out to you, Foxglove, the one I used to call home
or meditate upon the reasons
that I used to call this home
I used to.