Smoke Signals

Reaching, heavy limbs, they take in the syrup we spit from our lungs. Their leaves breathe deep, greed riddled whispers, substance heavy and sweet in their veins just as it is in ours.

We lie in the rough of our boulder hideaway, of our blackened breath and leaf mold bed. But soft in the sunny haze and your body’s deadweight (I don’t see a break in you baby, works motherfuckin’ fine for me) resting between my legs. The joint becomes a lifeline strung from your fag burned palms to my every fingerprint to our saliva fermenting on its tip. You take a hit and I do the same. I can taste you on the high I’m riding and it’s like I’m set on fire.

There’s paint on your lips and tongue, speckled grey and greyer still. And oh, god knows I’ll kiss and stain every root and bone of our grassroots home if it means I’ll hear that dreamy little laugh of yours.

A twist of smoke escapes alongside an echo, a chime (like church bells, those laughs could summon angels, baby) and you pass me the blunt, eyes bleary and sweet like chocolate in the sun. An inhale, and exhale through a nose buried deep in your hair. My love and carcinogens weave their way through the threads of a mohawk long overgrown.

You wave me away with the smoke and a smile.

“Gam! You’re getting paint in my hair!” You’ve a sleepy drawl and the words slur over the curve of your lips like a snake. They weep past the edge and collect on your chin, honey on caramel brought to such an easy boil. Delicious, fucking delicious. Miracle I didn’t eat you up right then and there.

[inhale, oh, inhale, and breathe motherfucker]

“Yeah? And I’ll get paint in more than that.” It’s a snarl and a prayer and a promise all in one. I might as well be talking in tongues, but you get the message and the ember is forgotten beside us.