Author S. K. Nicholas

It’s raining, and masturbation brings little relief, nor does the presence of others. Sex is a weapon. An impulse that shames. Stuck between the horrors of nature and man, there’s only addiction and cancer. Borderline Personality Disorder as puddles form in the middle of the road. Sometimes it feels as though people are worth saving, and sometimes there’s nothing more than the burning desire for the end to befall each and every one of us. Typewriters for writers with no fingers. Lips for lovers who’ve forgotten how to kiss. She knows it as do I. There’s no going back, and there’s no going forwards. We can’t even stay the same, for just when we think we know ourselves, things invisibly change. In my mind, I see a beach. Sometimes you’re near, but mostly far away, and no matter how hard I try and run to you, you keep on merging with the waves. All those tiny rocks blowing in your face; those empty cans of coke floating their way to the middle of the ocean. The cold air making it hard to breathe, I try and light a cigarette. Books and mirrors collecting dust. Our favorite positions becoming harder and harder to remember. Lines of dialogue disappearing along with the colour of your eyes. The touch of your knee, and the texture of your breast beneath my tongue. The smell of baby oil, of butter and strawberries. The ghost of your body against mine when I wake in the dead of night. You tell me to hold you, only you’re not there anymore, and all I can do is go downstairs, sit on the doorstep and think of what it would be like to exist in one of those distant galaxies that shone above our heads the night we first kissed. A tender girl so lonely, only there’s no stopping a thirst for infidelity, and I’m far too bored and old to waste energy I don’t have on things so superfluous. Bodies as leaves. Minds as daydreams, always.