A whiff of her stung like a thousand knives,
edges so sharp, they penetrate every pore of your being.
And yet, and yet, “killing me softly” would be an understatement!
Another whiff is the closest call,
almost willing you into choosing
whether to back off, or fall;
back off because there is a thin line between adrenaline and addiction,
Or fall because there is nothing to lose.
Whiff no. 3, oh it sets you free,
no difference between
delusion and reality.
You stay stuck to your seat for hours on par,
yet whiff after whiff takes you places afar.
If there is time travel
it lies in the scent;
the scent of pretty orchids and old books,
hoodies, coffee beans or the soil drenched in rain.
Albeit, for me it lies
in the scent of her-
stronger than the scents of my many a lover.
Intoxication, the sane world calls it
I call it meditation.
‘Cannabis’, they term it;
Medicine of Euphoria, I say.