Author S. K. Nicholas

I fantasise about having you, but you’ll never be mine. Maybe if I tried, but what’s the point in trying; these things come naturally or not at all. Lay next to me. Don’t say a word, just hold my hand and let us breathe in synch with the sound of a broken clock. The rattle of wind through the keyhole. Beating hearts and breastmilk. A rose by any other name. So many days that say so little; so many anxious moments when you were doing just swell. Oblivious to my frustrations, you carried on without a care in the world. Without so much as a concern, you slept your way to perfection, and this is why it means nothing to me. Bodies in your bed. Bodies in your head. Your life controlled by flesh; by dirty acts born from inner poverty. Places change, and so do faces. Yet a heart beats just the same. Memories of winter embers; of hips that spoke of childhood neglect now redeemed by the power of belief. You never believed, I could tell by the look in your eyes, and that’s why you’re driftwood, forever drifting not knowing anything more than this. I’m not bitter; I’m just waiting for the bombs to fall so I can laugh myself to sleep. If it all ended in a sharpened intake of breath, the pleasure would be mine. In dreams I’ll find you; without boundaries, I’ll show you the beauty I’ve kept hidden for so long. In memory, you become free of your chains- an angel clean of human stains.