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Petrichor snakes through the air,
mixing with the musty, polluted breath of the town.
Street lights,
pricking the night sky’s canvas
with smudges of lucent tinges.

A man sits alone, hopeless.

His mouth is dry, barren,
the rancid taste of regret
lingers on his lips.

He strums a melancholic tune with his bony fingers,
yearning for someone to hear his cries.

His mind, full of dreams and desires
intents and illusions
wishes and wonders

that could never come true.

But he was still hoping, longing
and they danced at the back of his mind
in a slow,
slow,
samba.