Author S. K. Nicholas

Hallucinating my illness between your thighs, the sky is alive with days of drunken freedom and untold horrors. Buried deep beneath the structures of modern living, the need to breathe sinks heavy in the gut. To be graceful when shadows keep closing in. To cling to love when others try their best to crush you under the weight of regret. Snuffed out by the cold, dreary, nights when the roads knew no end. Too many empty parking lots, and too many faces you never really see. Clinging to shapes while trying hard to rise above the circuitry others adore like a drug. An opiate for the masses, and other damned versions of life. On a train, and in a car. Smothered by others, and sweating as the sun sinks low on golden horizons. From cemeteries to car crashes to the scent of your lover’s bedsheets. Fingers on their lips, and the steady gaze of a nowhere man whose always looking for something more. The rain that sweeps in through the open window. Fractions of memory divided by your sighs as we swim in pools of oil. Dreams of being shot; of blood pumping through fingers onto cold asphalt. A thousand moments as you sleep. A billion grains of sand between your toes as the stars in your belly feed me what I need. Such a brittle chasm as you swing beneath a chestnut tree. Such a lulling kiss as you slip into the clutches of yet another vision. Footsteps in the clouds. Thawed out feelings dripping from the corner of your mouth. In a street with no name, we move out of the rain and embrace. Fingers linked and noses touching, we smile despite the sense of loss that can never be shaken. Polarised and divided, we want only to be real in an age where the soul has no meaning. To drift like leaves between the moon and forest. Promise me you’ll never let go. Tell me as the bombs drop, that you’ll be mine, always and forever. Sweethearts and ghosts. Aureoles at sunset, as soft as babies breath. A testament to your madness, and what it means to be alive in a universe folding like paper. Origami for bored gods. Letters for dead poets. These are the hours we stand alone, wanting only to be real. Wanting only to feel something before it’s too late.