Don't Burn Too Fast

Don't burn too fast.
I cornered the bowl so you'd have enough.
I want to drag out every second of getting high with you.
You look cute when you're putting up a front.
The bowl is too big but you'll smoke it anyway.

Predictability is your undoing. I fucking love it.

You light the green part of the bowl, and attempt to clear the whole thing in one hit.

As the smoke swims down your throat, coughs begin to surface.

I grab your shoulder blade lightly in an attempt to ease the wheezing. The touch startles you but manages to make you catch your breath. You look up to me and laugh, embarrassed. Your vulnerability makes me hot.

The cherried bowl is still burning, and I grab it from your hands.

"Do you want to shotgun this last hit with me?"

I asked impulsively. I knew you couldn't handle another normal hit. So, in an attempt to be generous, I offered a shotgun thinking it would go down smoother.

The idea visibly excites both of us, regardless of our attempts to hide it.

"Yeah, sure."

I can tell from your body language that you aren't uncomfortable with it. I'm not sure if I'm high already or not, but my brain also expands in curiosity.

I lift the bowl to my lips and clear it out, but leave most of the smoke in my cheeks. You lean your face in very close to mine, and open your lips enough to let the smoke in.

My lips also part, and I lean in enough to trap the smoke between our breath.

You can't hide your smile, but fuck if you don't look precious while trying.

I exhale into your mouth, focusing my gaze on your lips at first, and then meeting you with eye contact.

The room is still. Time is slower than before and the familiar tension surfaces as the most oddly pleasurable nausea.

Our gaze lingers for many moments too long and somehow not long enough.

I break it only once you get comfortable. If you're feeling the same as me, I need this to burn as painfully slow as possible.

We're stoned and staring out of my window.
It's warm, and the cicadas are returning for their 17 year cycle. The chirping distracts us both from our previous encounter.

I can feel the high setting in. The heavy indica weighs me down to my seat and my muscles relax everywhere. Slowly, I become aware of every sensation in my body. My fingertips on the blanket, my hair sitting still on my neck and back, your breath filling the space where mine should be.

But nothing feels like watching you melt in front of me. My high changes my perspective, and I begin to notice your subtle communications. Mystery Girl is playing on my TV.

You look at me. My eyes tell you not to look away.

You do.

Good.

"I love this song."

I love this song too.
But you already know that.

"Me too."

You are smiling now. Not with your lips. With your body. I hope that's my fault.

It's silent now. Heavy and warm. Don't say anything.

You do.

Good.

"Why did you want to see me again?"