upon turning 18, i started the weekly tradition of going to the twisted branch tea bazaar. a knotty, sculpted tree climbs up the walls there. i see the gnarled eye of Methuselah in its whorls.
a flock of vividly patterned rugs swarm across the floor.
traversing the shallowest definition of grownness, i nervously brandish my vertical ID to buy hookah and a pot of tea.
feathers of creamy white smoke drift upwards from my lips, signaling adolescent angst.
fresh melon, fragrant rose and a powerful headrush glue me to the pile of silk pillows, my virgin lungs drunk on thick vapors.
every week i pretend to read books but instead eavesdrop on first dates.
one time i thought i met the love of my life but he fled when he realized
i was still a child.
as i languidly recline behind a pot of atlas sage, the server tells me i must be tea-drunk.
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