green-eyed monster

Let me get high with you.

Your bedroom door is made of glass. I can smell your colour from my end of the hallway you know. Perhaps we could meet in the middle and have sitting conversations slumped against the wall? We wouldn’t be the first.

Believe me when I say that I have seen Sunday nights too. I took photographs in your wardrobe before it was yours. My bread sits next to your memories and my memories sit in your home town. We are both geographically sound and you are good at horticulture. We can start a business which provides return. A home business. From home, at home.

Here’s a good idea: Let’s build our own city over the existing city’s rooftops. Lay down a gigantic drop-sheet and tip-toe around pretending we’re well supported. We will be well-supported when we have our working-at-home in-house horticultural fool-proof money-making scheme up and running. Then we can buy a hot air balloon so that we don’t have to tip-toe anymore and we can light our smokes on the gas-thingy-whatsit underneath the balloon. We’d never have to spend money on lighters. Getting high while high up. That'd be great.

We could flick the ash overboard the hot air balloon basket and you’d get fourteen points for it landing on someone’s head. Which is more difficult than you’d think, with the drop-sheet and all.

I’m serious! Can we get high together? I mean, I’m half smoking now anyway. I mean I’m second-hand smoking. We are circular smoking: out your window and in through mine.

No, honestly. My lungs are well-loved – for now. But my gut is not so much. I won’t pay for it but I do like the idea. Go on. Convince me. You know I’ll accommodate.