Ode to a Lost Juul


O! The wasted and fleeting moments

that we shared together meant so much.

I was the generous one, and you were 

for the people. 

“Hey bro, can I have a hit of your juul”

shall not be spoken to me thus forth 

for you are gone and only the ruin

of what once was remains.

Never again can I rip a fat one

and blow sick clouds to impress the bros.

I am without myself, my extension

and I am lost.

That fateful night in the Uber

can hardly be remembered now,

after many rounds of beer pong and

kegs with the boys,

it being a Saturday after all.

But in my mind’s eye I can see,

o, most wretched thought, you, my love,

Sitting in the backseat having 

simply slipped away from me.

Until my father once again gives me

money, I am juul-less, and I am without

direction. Lost, in the never ending

swirl of shots with the boys, missing my

only friend, that sweet, beautiful hit

of mango. I long for one last hit with

you, my fallen brethren, and one true bro. 

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Born in scenic, idyllic Chino next to the women's prison where some of the Manson girls are still kept, Emily was an okay student, excelling only in kissing up to language arts teachers' asses. Today, she can be found on Crown hill hiding from the gamers and talking about the 60s as if she really was a Manson girl.