Stoned at the End of the Road

We parked along the shoulder of the road, it was a foggy night and we were on the north of the town.

Cars pass by, rarely, and only a few passenger-tricycles light up the road every after several minutes. At this hour of the night, had you not been home in town, I would have been in bed reading about the lives of the saints. But there you were, ringing our doorbell, and next to seeing your face is me putting on that jacket without asking where we’d go.

I like how you randomly appear in my life, segments in my adolescent still compose of us together– doing things that we’d rather not tell people.  We kill time, together, and it didn’t matter what that meant, and I like that.

“We could get married, you know? Like a contract– you’d be a lawyer, I’ll pull in the drugs, we’d make a great couple. You know, like Bonnie and Clyde, but localized”. You spoke with  so much confidence, like you thought I’d say yes.

“You’re mestizo, I’m part Chinese, we could have kids.– but I don’t like kids. Who likes kids?”.

“I do.”. Which was a surprise, considering how inconsiderate you have been with the good life. You lived a criminal life, legitimized by your family being immensely involved in politics. Groomed as the next Mayor, you have smile ossified by constant publicity– I admire you for being too cunning, and I like that I’m the only one to know.

You start grinding the weed in a Heineken grinder, while you spoke of adventures that I wasn’t a part of. Tonight, you are so full of life, or maybe, just because you are a break from my usual, grim, repetitive routines.

First fat puff, then smooth next ones.

Eyes drooping, you spoke about marriage, then more of it, and we were high in the night.

You were so stoned you thought the road will not end, and as I look at you, there was nothing there– my heart’s turn to stone and what I always see is just the end of the road.


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