Dope.

Here he comes.

All .....smiley.

And smooth,

and
.........earnest.

All soft-palmed

and deep-voiced

and smell-good.

Full of promise and rawness

and enough "I love you's" to force your heart to its knees, begging for mercy-

dripping snot and juicy salt-tears.

A man who believes in soulmates.

And as if that's not enough to wet your pretty little eyes...

he said that he's convinced I'm his.

The only thing we don't see eye-to-eye on is the whole weed thing.

To him, it's recreation.

And as an artist, it's to be expected, I suppose.

But me?

Ha.

I'm a walking PSA:

Against anything that takes you out of the "right state of mind."

At least, I was.

Because between his sticky-honey kisses, paralyzing eyes (in which Ifind myself drowning in a naked, sweaty slumber... all open-legged and unafraid) and his cripplingly-contagious jolt of a laugh...

I smoke, inhale and breath him in every day.

And if his high is anything like mine,

then consider me a new advocate of the dopest drug known to man.