Numb from the Need to Feel
In the city’s bruised heart, where midnight is currency and secrets are traded behind locked eyes,
Dreams collide in back alleys flooded with harsh light–
A cold blue glow that spills over skin, hides more than it reveals,
Truth shrinking from every glance, every bargain, every lie sold as hope.
Here, every shadow holds a ledger; the price of wanting is paid in sweat and silence.
Mysteries hang thick in the air–
Unspoken deals, half-finished names,
Lust is just another mask for hunger no one will claim.
Bodies press close in the dark,
Promises traded for an hour of weightless escape,
No one asking for forever, just a way to remember the blood still moves.
No bill will ever buy what’s real–
Numbness seeps in slow,
A defense against another night where touch is transaction,
Where the warmth lasts only until dawn and everything else is just longing in disguise.
A trap played out in the hush between beats,
Whispers curling into ears like the start of a confession–
A plea for something sharp enough to break through the dull ache.
Love’s a ghost in this place, a rumor sung in alleyways,
An invitation scribbled on the back of a matchbook,
Daring anyone to believe, just for a minute,
That the right hands can set you alight.
She steps from the dark, a wicked smile in the shape of salvation,
Short dress moving like temptation,
Legs weaving a trap that nobody wants to escape,
Eyes promising delight or danger, but always something to feel.
There’s no rescue here, no myth of redemption–
Only the collision of need and want,
A slow spiral through fantasy and forgetting.
Paid in full for a night’s delight,
No questions asked, no names repeated,
Just the rush–
The press of skin, the sting of hunger,
Everything burning while it lasts.
Every touch is desperate,
A slap to the soul’s numb cheek,
A reminder that feeling, even borrowed or bought,
Beats the dead calm of emptiness.
Desire leaves its mark–nails dragged down a back,
The echo of her mouth on my skin,
Imprints that outlive the sun,
Branded into memory long after the city coughs up another day.
Reality bends in the small hours,
Passion becomes the only compass,
And all that matters is the fire that chases the cold away.
You can’t buy what’s real–
But for a few hours, you can pay for the illusion,
Numb from the need to feel,
Chasing pleasure through the shadows,
Afraid of the dawn, but hungrier still.
A world blurred by longing,
Where every heartbeat is a wager against the emptiness,
And every night is spent chasing what can’t be kept–
Paid in full, but never owned.