there’s a boy with calloused knuckles &
a laugh that hits like the first pull of a pipe—
fast, hot, & hollow. we sit cross-legged
on the edge of someone else’s kitchen,
plastic bag between us like a shrine.
his wrist trembles lighting the glass.
i pretend not to notice how gentle
his fingers are when he passes it to me.
we’re both breaking at the speed of mercy.
smoke curls around us like something holy,
like a god that doesn’t care who it touches.
i think—
love shouldn’t bloom in the ruins
but here we are:
mouths dry, hearts kicking
against the ribs like trapped dogs,
& still
i want to tell him
you make me forget
how wrong this is.
you make even the ache feel
like a lullaby.
we don’t kiss.
too scared it’ll mean something.
or everything.
instead, we share water bottles &
the silence after a hit.
that’s where it lives—
the almost-love.
the not-quite-right kind.
like singing with a swollen throat.
like praying with your teeth clenched.
he asks,
what do you see in me?
and i almost say,
myself.
but i don’t.
i lie. i say,
just someone to get high with.
but the truth is
i’m falling—
not like rain,
but like a building
already on fire.
Jul 11, 2025
Jul 11, 2025 at 12:54 AM UTC
there’s a boy with calloused knuckles &
a laugh that hits like the first pull of a pipe—
fast, hot, & hollow. we sit cross-legged
on the edge of someone else’s kitchen,
plastic bag between us like a shrine.
his wrist trembles lighting the glass.
i pretend not to notice how gentle
his fingers are when he passes it to me.
we’re both breaking at the speed of mercy.
smoke curls around us like something holy,
like a god that doesn’t care who it touches.
i think—
love shouldn’t bloom in the ruins
but here we are:
mouths dry, hearts kicking
against the ribs like trapped dogs,
& still
i want to tell him
you make me forget
how wrong this is.
you make even the ache feel
like a lullaby.
we don’t kiss.
too scared it’ll mean something.
or everything.
instead, we share water bottles &
the silence after a hit.
that’s where it lives—
the almost-love.
the not-quite-right kind.
like singing with a swollen throat.
like praying with your teeth clenched.
he asks,
what do you see in me?
and i almost say,
myself.
but i don’t.
i lie. i say,
just someone to get high with.
but the truth is
i’m falling—
not like rain,
but like a building
already on fire.
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