I suck in a cloud of that sticky green smoke and blow it towards my new windows

I suck in a cloud of that sticky green smoke and blow it towards my new windows. Three of them (or maybe four) all lined up in a row.
You see, my new bedroom used to be the porch. But laziness and the need for storage in suburbia are the cause of the extinction of front porches.
Time was I could sit on the old creaking splintered boards of my house, feeling the peeling paint and wicker dig into the skin of my thighs and watch the rain pour down in front of me. I'd feel the mist hit my face when a breeze made the spatter on the asphalt float towards me.
I could watch the grass dance and bend in the waves of precipitation, and if I was careful and good I could dance in it, too.
But now? Now I'm surrounded by glass and siding and sheetrock. And the windows are slammed up against each other in a line, waiting to be opened, yearning for the room to breathe. I fill it with smoke and half-smiles.
I let my thoughts collect on the ceiling. I stare them down and pluck them off as I see fit. I think of... a boy. Some nameless-shapeless boy. A conglomeration of every love and fuck I've ever had, spun fast so the bad parts whip off and the good parts stick close to the center. His smile kills me, it really does, but I wish I could see his face.
I take down the thought of adventure. Of jumping into a car with a friend or two and just driving. Heading nowhere fast, but fuck if it matters. You're only young once, kids. Savor it like the air after the rain, it'll cloud up soon enough.
I hold in my hands the idea of my future. It's very amorphous and free-formed. And every time I get a line on it the shape changes again. Staring at it makes my eyes ache, and I toss it back up there with the smoke.
Taking another drag I stare up at the slats above me. If those planks could talk, what would they say? I don't really care, to be honest, I'm just wandering in my mind with the smoke.
I pluck up a skittering little wisp of a thing and whisper at it, "What are you, Small One?" It doesn't answer me, but it tickles as it wriggles back off my hand and off into the air again.
Strange that only in this little room that I made mine barely hours before I'm wrestling with demons and angels. And humans, for that matter.
Not that there's another human in my bedroom with me, perish the thought. I haven't brought a person home with me in 3 years. It's always been their place, not mine, and that probably means something, but I'm too fogged over to figure it out.
The thunder cracks side to side across the glass panes I'm facing. I exhale another lungful as I pull myself up and wander outside into the rain. I'm standing in the air and water, watching the fire streak down in pin-point strokes above my head, and I feel the tingle through my feet and my heartbeat skip as it hits a little too close to home.
Home? Is that where this is? Shouldn't home be broken in and familiar? I wonder.
Beating down on me, the rain pours. It cleans me out. I'm soaked to the skin and starting to feel scrubbed raw at the strength and intensity of these droplets, but I don't go inside. Instead, I dance. I spin around in circles with my arms and hair stretched out around me. It feels good.
My bare feet dig into the grass and mud, gripping the earth as I trip out a pattern. I am not graceful in this front yard. I jerk and I gyrate and I can't keep a rhythm going because the thunder and lightening and rain are all competing for my attentions. But still, I dance. The water and energy and light pour down around me and I feel something bubbling up inside me. I laugh.
My face splits open into a smile and I laugh.
I laugh and laugh and sing old ancient words I thought I'd forgotten. I let the rain plaster my body together and just stand there crucified against the flashing sky, singing out loud into the booms and cracks and splashes.
It's over suddenly. The drops slow and the thunder grumbles on and the lightening turn into polaroid splashes across the receding clouds. I stand dripping clean, grinning down at my bare mud-covered feet. The sun breaks free and glows on my head, warming me up as I shiver in its beams. I've always been a sun worshipper, even with the heathen storm-dancing.
I turn and move inside, the room in a new, watery glow through the freshly washed windows. Pale light stretches fingers across the ceiling, and I see my smoke and thoughts drifting out the tops.
I strip bare and lie down, wrapping myself in the sheets. In a little while I'll peel them off me and put on dry, human clothes, but for now I want the soft cotton to cling to me almost obscenely and revel in my fleeting abandonment. I reach over my head and grab my fire, inhale and exhale another stream of smoke, and then lay back.
There's another storm coming tomorrow. I can feel it in the mist rising from the asphalt and the way the birds haltingly sing the praises of the returning sun. I feel it in my vibrating bones.
I think tomorrow will be a new day. Brighter, more brilliant, more strong than this half-hazed one. But I think tomorrow I'll still dance the same in the storm.