Smother Me

Charlie and Lola danced across the screen like it was a circus trapeze. The sickly sweet smell of pot was biting into everything.

He rest his scruffy chin on my bony shoulder, and I turn so he won’t be peering into my ear. “I’ma take a nap,” he proclaims.

“At ten a.m.?” I ask, skeptical, “Uh huh. Wake up, baby.”

A frown creases his big lips. I pull my shoulder away and catch his jaded face in my hands. “I’ve been up since like, two.”

Excuses, excuses.

Squeaky british accents punctured the hazy air. I make a mental note to clean this filthy apartment.

With a smile, I pull him on top of me. Though, in the end, it’s him cradling me close, so close.

I push some of his matted hair off my forehead and kiss his cheek. How did I end up so tangled in him?

The boobtube bursts into symphonies of moaning shampoo commercials.

“Sleep, baby.” I say; soft, so soft.

He hums an incoherent agreement before tighting his hold around my waist and sinking into the pillows a bit.

This is home.

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