you just wafted along ocean drive like there was nothing under your feet but smoke, leaning your head on the window and laughing about the week you’ve had. dizzy marine air fills your lungs when you inhale. 

you said: let’s park at brenton. now the trunk’s open, the seats are flat and you’re reclined on warm leather in front of the most glorious sunset of the spring.

your friends don’t have any new stories to tell you, but that’s because you’re in all of their stories. remember when it was like that?

notes: aquidneck salt, indica, coastal roses