Author S. K. Nicholas

There’s an infinite sprawl of tiny memories that come alive when I catch an hours sleep after work. They dance and fit behind my eyes, but every time I try and catch them, they slip away leaving me to fall. Dreams of buildings, of green lawns and summer sun, but something is missing, and no matter what comes next, the emptiness is unshakeable. Liquid forms in the corners of my eyes; it tastes the same as the sea, and it tastes the same as her mouth. Kissing away tears, and kissing the lips of her vagina, it makes me sway, and memories of both reduce me to a husk of who I used to be. Stray pubic hairs and the tang of copper in my mouth as a dog barks in the rain. He’s shivering and soaked to his doggy bones, but there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I can ever do. Underwear tossed on the bedroom floor, the bottle of beer speaks to me of devilry, but there’s no point in calling it quits now. Somewhere in the local paper, there’s an article about a woman who microwaves butterflies. Part of me wants to microwave her for being so cruel, but the other half wants to take her from behind. So tacky I know, but a man is just a man after all. To come up against one so cruel; to confront one whose mind is as dark as your own. There’s so much we won’t own up to for fear of being shunned, but there comes a moment in life when you have to make a stand for the person you are. Good, bad, whatever. Do what you want; feed kisses to the one who accepts you for everything you’re not, and write about things that tickle your fancy other’s would rather keep to themselves. Restless groins are the downfall of so many, but I offer no answers, only teeth that wish to mark those willing to experience something new. I want to rip out the pages of Finnegans Wake and insert them deep into her body. She won’t see the importance, but in years to come, she’ll understand what I was trying to say.