Passing out after a joint or two with you…

…is better than shaking Niagara spittle from a borrowed poncho, better than getting lucky on a two dollar scratch card and being able to feed myself for a week in Florida, better than daily Georgia accents and better than watching live football (soccer) at seven in the morning, better than a front porch cigarette smoked slowly in the zenith of a west coast thunderstorm, better because having you here with your Rooney Mara nose twitch means that you are real and that it is you and you are not pixelated through a computer screen beamed in from five hours away, better than playing a perfect pool game on a Friday night with the guys, better than catching a home run hitter at Fenway Park to the applause of thirty-thousand people, better than the first margarita savoured at El Nachos and better than the blurred remainder of the night that followed, better than the guitar solo Prince plays in While My Guitar Gently Weeps (but only barely), better than filling lungs with fresh air after a five hour Greyhound ride and better than finding out the seat booked for a cross-country flight is an aisle seat with extra legroom, better than poutine and coke after a rock concert, better because when it hits 11:59 you count the seconds until September for some reason and kiss me at midnight so damn sweetly I feel like dying right there in your arms.

Passing out after a joint or two with you is better than passing out after a joint alone, better than all other pastimes, better than an entire semester spent away and exploring, but not
better than waking up to you the next morning after jetlag and from said semester away.