Percocets drift like honey little clits popping in our mouths. The kind of joke we think is funny when we smoke. Fumbling together while our hearts fall out of our chests and down into our ankles. One nostril for uppers and the other for downers and then scattered under the tongue for good measure. City in sharps beneath our feet and nakedness smoking against our gums, everything screaming and laughing, both cold and hot and familiar like the hard floor. Remember before there were needles? How hard it was to rest.