deepundergroundpoetry.com
High (prose)
That first hit is always the best. Like Goldielocks you pack it, not too tight, not too loose but just right. The glass presses against your lips and you stop, just for a second. Just long enough to draw out that feeling of anticipation that makes goosebumps erupt all over your body. The lighter clicks, and you start to inhale.
The smoke is like hot syrup hitting the back of your throat. Its heady and sticky and warm. It tastes acrid, yet incredibly sweet at the same time. You feel your lungs expanding. Making way and being filled with the magic. You push it to the max till you feel like you're about to explode, then in a move so sudden you almost surprise yourself you drop the clutch and feel the shock of air mingling with the marijuana.
Hold.
Hold.
Hold.
Count down the seconds, from sixty and try and make it to one. Finally you reach your absolute limit and you release, forcing yourself to exhale slowly to avoid a coughing fit.
Then it hits you.
The smoke is like hot syrup hitting the back of your throat. Its heady and sticky and warm. It tastes acrid, yet incredibly sweet at the same time. You feel your lungs expanding. Making way and being filled with the magic. You push it to the max till you feel like you're about to explode, then in a move so sudden you almost surprise yourself you drop the clutch and feel the shock of air mingling with the marijuana.
Hold.
Hold.
Hold.
Count down the seconds, from sixty and try and make it to one. Finally you reach your absolute limit and you release, forcing yourself to exhale slowly to avoid a coughing fit.
Then it hits you.
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