We’d sit on the roof,
the spring sun will remind us that summer isn’t the only friendly season.
And we’d chain smoke our way through rays and rays of sunlight. Both of us reading,
God knows what, but filtering the tar of the world out of our souls and replacing it with fiction.
Sometimes it’s in his room, as he
strums on his guitar, symphonies he may just forget by the morn.
And I’ll sit, cross legged on your rolling bed,
figuring out why mine never look as good as yours.
Is it too little? Am I too much?
But because I’ve rolled two today, you’ll reward me with three of your own. Only one requires our ****** house grinder.
And I’ll ask you to play that song from three sleeps ago
-when we both sat in our separate rooms, together. And you will.
And you’ll pass it back to me, after two or three deep pulls and exhale through your fingers on the strings of your guitar.
And I’ll study this joint and realize,
that I did, indeed, put way too much tobacco in all my cigarettes today.