Stress-Less

Talk is how we think.

I remember I read that somewhere.

Seems so oddly useless

on these unsparing nights

with the sky pink

like a fresh burn,

superimposed behind those

worn-out mountains that cast complicated shadows

over-top these opine-less pines that loom around us

with life -- like life -- as a creek speaks

over the clicking of twigs underneath

our planted asses,

for what seems like our final night in adolescents,

before we leave another husk among us, wrung out, outgrown

like a shrunken garment until we have only our simple talk

that starts with 

"remember

when."

For now,

we work like drinks and cigarettes

on stress-less eves:

We liquored, we simple,

each out breath so serene-

ly lethal.

Our smoke

hangs fog-like low, tethered above us

while we strike up conversations

like used matches

Useless, all of this, we likely forget,

except that overall,

simple

                                                          happiness.