I don't get fucked up.
I stay stone-cold sober,
supportive, cling to control.
So while she floats,
I anchor us both.
She laughs into her knees,
passing the blunt back.
I fake another hit to make her think I’m feeling it.
But really, I’m watching the streetlights blur.
She’s staring at me like I yanked her off a ledge.
“You ever think we were meant to be stoned?”
she says, then coughs.
Then laughs.
Then stops.
Then looks at me.
“Like… this was the real us all along?”
I put on a dumbfounded face. “Yeah and…
“we were supposed to get high on oxygen.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s possible.”
Five minutes later, we’re back on the sidewalk.
Celie freezes,
stopping short,
mouth open.
She walks backwards slow,
hand out like she’s guiding traffic.
“Bro… bro. Nah.Bro.”
I drop my head as I turn to face her.
“What now?”
She points, wide-eyed, whisper-screaming,
