The day drags to a close, like a worn-out cassette playing the last lazy notes of a forgotten song. Bye-bye colleagues and classmates, home is a half-lit sanctuary.

The door clicks shut behind me, and the weight of the day falls off like a loose scarf. Inside, the air is vibrating with a quiet anticipation. There, on the table, they wait for me—patient, perfect. I've been thinking of this all day, the way they'd feel between my fingers, the way they’d kiss my lips with that familiar sweetness. I know the night will be slow, deliberate, the kind of reunion where no words are needed, just the soft spark of connection and the warmth that follows.

They're dressed in thin, delicate layers, wrapped so artfully it’s almost a shame to unravel them. Almost. But my fingers ache for that ritual, the way they tease, make you wait just a little longer before letting you in. I can picture it now—the warmth, the first taste of them as I inhale deep, and everything else fades away.

In that moment, the world is just the two of us, bound by heat and breath, the night stretching out in front of us like a promise. And as the first tendrils of smoke curl into the air, you smile, because it was always about the weed waiting to take you home.