don't worry, it's not addictive

the first time it was strange

your taste didn't go down right with mine,

you opened your mouth way too wide,

the smoke made me cough, got into my eyes.

then I started to laugh, in the mist of the fog

It might've been the second, or tenth time, when I finaly felt it:

the strawberry after-taste.

you made me say stupid things, feel drowsy,

and held.

Habit's the bitch, they say

glues your ass to the couch,

I could never get away.

It always started the same:

You're confused, I feel lonely, okay.

We could've written a thousand books, or one page

our friendship's minimum wage

on all the philosophical reasons

for my midnight terrors,

for your back-and-forth-forcefield

and we'd never have gotten anywhere,

past the living room window,

past the fire-escape stares

Baked, cooked, drunk, sweaty.

I held my own hand, when yours wasn't steady.

Like any addiction, we decided to quit

half of us, anyway.

I wanna grow up, you wanna grow it

You wanna grow up, I wanna grow old

no harm, no faul, no goal.

You don't need it when you're okay, you don't need it to celebrate,

you need it while you're trying to write, you need it when there's noone in sight.

And to sum up the pop song cliche:

you're strong, though you look just like the soft stuff.

last time I did you, I had such a bad trip,

with only a puff,

that now I get scared of the cliff just by getting near,

just by saying hello.

Can't remember your medicinal uses

that you can cure cancer,

depression

and, at times, even hunger.