Sticky mind.

A birdsong in my ear dissipates upon the coo of a butane flame and the two sounds meld into one as I heat up a nail for some measly marijuana.

I choke up a cloud. Exhaling the present moment. Slicked to my hand like fog to a windshield. For I own the highway, I drive on.

I recall the past and where it still drives me. Dreading the sinking archipelago of my hungry soul. Too painful to count the vanishing enclaves. My endangered joy of days tragically too bold.

I think about changes and distant stalwarts. Entanglement with who knows where. A pile of anchors, enough to make velcro. The skyscape muffles behind earbuds. Never the case unless I’m at one.

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