The old escape 
of psychedelic bliss
sings its siren song

the last time was at his place. 
His cats were playing with eachother
the floor was spiraling. 

He had nothing but a silk robe on
He called me to the bed

Even with the greatest effort
no words could be formed.

As his hand brushed against 
the tits that had just grown that year
he commented how this was only
my 21st lap around the sun,
how in his own seasoned perspective 
he saw me as just a child. 

At three am
he wakes me up and ushers me out
citing the moon and his need for isolation

in that moment the spiraling
of the world around me
clerified into the cycles I had repeated
since the choice was mine. 

By the grace of something greater
I made it to my friends, 
went to work the next day,
and blocked him. 

Yet I can’t help but retread
and long for the temporary enlightenment
those chemicals bring.