Warm Hands

April rain, gray and persistent. The kind of morning where you want something warm but you’re sick of coffee. Not sick of high, exactly, but sick of the sitting around waiting for it to hit, the pointlessness of timing your own intoxication like you’re measuring for a recipe.

Someone made hot cannabis chocolate, and I get it now. It’s not subtle or clever. You just hold a cup, something bitter and dark and warm, and you drink it. No waiting. No wondering if it’s working yet. Just the simple fact of it—the taste, the heat in your hands, the slow move through you. It’s not a revelation. It’s the opposite of revelation. It just is.

Rainy mornings used to mean something to me, or I thought they should. Now they don’t. You wake up, the weather is shit, and you find something warm to hold. That’s the whole transaction. No lesson, no epiphany, no reason it means anything beyond the fact that you’re not cold for a while. And that turns out to be enough.