Persistent

Weed filtered through my pipe, floating like a crack in the ceiling on a Seattle’s winter day — going to God knows where. If I could go, I’d follow the deep of her green eyes across the West Coast. I’d set aside what she said yesterday and run for the hills, or drag the lake with Atticus in mind, like the smoke, the scent of her perfume carried me along hills, the curves off-ramps, and freeways to the Windy City back to Seattle — to where we met — to where she lies upon my chest.

AC

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