Author S. K. Nicholas

Old cement factories as she tip-toes across the landing wearing only a baggy jumper. The way the rain taps against the window as she slips between patterned sheets, it reminds me of a time before the great fall. Curled together, she bites my chest, yet I can only think of the necklacing video that still resonates from earlier in the day. Making love with no words, we reduce the outside world to a mere footnote. There’s electricity in the air, and it has no language. It shoots through us and makes our toes tingle. Laying side by side and breathless, she whispers her fears upon my brow, yet there’s nothing I can do except pull her close. Dreams of castration follow, as do flashing images of an early death. Something to do with Van Gogh. Something to do with an ex-lover with a body that always eluded my wanting hands. I want to get back to safety, yet there’s nowhere to go but the future. Uncertainty and death are all that await. They force my hand. They make me sad. Ballet pumps at the bottom of the stairs. Cold Sunday mornings as she walks back home while I nurse a hangover in dreams of fire. Two slices of toast and a cup of tea followed by puking up in the kitchen sink. She complains about my drinking and hates the way I look at other women, yet these are the things that drive me. They ignite what it means for me to be. Her body beneath mine as the days grows old, my anxieties flutter along with the clothes left out on the washing line. Soaked like the mattress beneath us as I fill her up the best I can, the wind and rain drench our finest. Things that cut through the pain. Feelings that pass from my mouth to hers. Figure me out. Say something sweet. Make me mine and I’ll make you yours. A pink moon to serenade our passing. A reason to keep on believing.