Every time
Every time I think of you I get the pungent smell and taste of marijuana in the back of my throat and in my nose, as if you’re sitting across from me, hopelessly exhaling away from me, like you’re protecting me from something. I picture your face, unsatisfied. Your permanent scowl. I remember your voice, feminine and insensitive.
Every time I hang out with old friends from high school, the topic is inevitable. Where did he go? Where is he? One of us will joke and say, “he’s dead,” and we will all laugh. Lately I’ve started to believe that you probably are dead. They say your friend is dead, too.
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