The bottle holds a quaint green potion.
My eyes twitch at the proximity of touch.
My frosting lips an abyss of words unspoken.
The uncanny world too faint to declutch.
He is but an addiction.
Rather a philtre, an elixer
A reminder of what I was
-alive, beating and chipper!
He is my Achilles' Heel,
The pride that is to a lion,
The sword that adorns his fall,
The lullaby to the times bygone.
