It is 1:43 am
I am lying in the street while Pilger plays with his lighter.
He got it in Hawaii.
He got a tattoo there, too.
It’s some symbol from a show he loves.
I hope he still likes it when he gets old.
I hear the cars flying down the highway just a few streets over,
the humming of the air conditioners of Mikey’s neighbors
across the street. It’s all too loud for me. I can’t concentrate.
I don’t see any stars in the sky either.
There’s barely any shining tonight. They’re probably heavy sleepers.
They’re probably ignoring the noise of our town.
In a few minutes, Chiappa comes to pick us up because we all refuse to sleep
and we’ve got nothing else to do but drive through suburban streets
and talk about drinking and school.
Don’t those two go together so well?
Like the way sex and music does,
or women and music,
Or sex with women while listening to music?
Gotye comes on the radio and I’m feeling content.
I mean, of course, I miss you
still,
but I’ve got music that’s decent,
I’ve got my good friends,
I’ve got a new dealer who’s quiet (and sells good stuff cheap).
I’ve got ways to waste time until I see you again.
You said not to wait, but
I don’t know how to do anything else.
Lucas Rheed