Every once in a while
I remember
strolling through these vacant halls
the calls of buzzing students
dead
yet still very much alive.
Memories reside in rows and rows of
coffee-stained lockers.
The bright lights
wait overhead,
forming a perfect alignment
if you lay at the end
and stare.
Down these desolate halls,
I remember

sitting on your mahogany couch,
a small instrument in my clutch
four strings singing
their simple three chords.
A combination of voices,
one like melting ice,
another like a red-orange flame,
belted a chorus that everybody knew.
The dull shag carpet underfoot
evolved into paint-stained wood
as an auditorium of faces
filled the thick air with their cheers
for us.
I remember

just one year later,
four strings become six,
and we do it all over again.
Mahogany couch
melting ice and red-orange flame
dull shag carpet
paint-stained wood
the cheers and screams
we'd hear in our dreams.
I remember,
do you?

You've changed, my dear friend.
The music that flowed through your veins
has been replaced by narcotics
getting stoned and baked
until you wake
alone, stranded,
unaware of where you are.
Filling your throat and lungs with
artificial happiness
to hide from
your mother's pill popping and
your father's infidelity.

Your youthful glow
that resonated in your smile
and brown-green-yellow eyes
has faded.
In its place sits
evil
masked by smiles,
now running miles to hide your own
bodily shame.

I'm calling you
but being sent straight to voicemail.
There's two different you's,
but only one number.
I don't want the new you,
broken in cracks, so
dear old Jason,
please call back.