On the street again tonight,

it’s hot

Tweakers wander, aimless

Sunstroked,

It’s a hundred degrees Fahrenheit past midnight;

Purposeless, listless, like earwigs had eaten tunnels throughout

their brains,

in their eyes an emptiness,

the dreams seem without scenes

like pure emotional, traumatic torture,

There’s no hope of relief

There’s only useless attempts to remain stimulated,

Simulations of life

in this big, fat, delusional sandwich.

There’s music in her voice

it seems there’s a clammy, cool pretense of sweetness on her fingertips

that she’s hiding,

secretly dreaming,

in denial to her desire for him,

When he thinks of her, she calls,

she resonates,

she’s like bells and harps

she sounds like the stuff that positively regards

And wonders

And wonders