The all-too-familiar scent invades my senses,
drifting past me, carried invisibly, invincibly on the air,
inescapable, paralyzing, melting.
Its tendrils, curving in the slightest pattern, straightening,
then lucidly curving in again like a teasing finger, taunting–
my treacherous mind follows to where it wants me.
And of course, it leads to the place I love the most,
and abhor the most simultaneously,
the place I avoid, yet always arrive at inevitably.
The usual? Yeah. That’s what it wants,
the scent that is, like laundry and loss of innocence.
And boy, does it take me back.
The only way to stop going,
to un-remember, to re-forget,
is to stop breathing.