Author S. K. Nicholas

She wears her city dress something cute, and as I knock back a shot of something spicy, my eyes belong only to her. They grow as big as the moon, and after all these years my hands still itch at the sight of her. Those curves that ripple like the curtains in the dead of night, and the scent of her hair as light as fresh bed linen. There’s an essence to her- an element in her touch that goes beyond what I know. There are no horizons, only torture, but there’s a finer side to life, and although it gets so dark at times, she always shines a light that guides me back home. We’re outsiders. We always have been, and we always will be. Maybe once we wanted to fit in- to be just like them, but now we’d happily commit murder to save ourselves from the clutches of ones so ordinary. Across the hallway, as the storm passes through our town, she calls my name. She spells out each letter and waits for my return, but sometimes I lose my way, for the bottle gets the better of me. Love isn’t a fairytale; it’s an obsolete ideology that the weak cling to like a blanket. Surrendering to another through fear of where your vision may lead you; it’s a mistake I used to make time after time, but not anymore. If you don’t believe in your dreams, then you disappear along with everything else that speaks only of the curse of modernity. These cigarettes don’t help, but in the early hours when my resolve is tested most, they ease a mind that never seems to settle like it used to. A blending of truth and make-believes. A vision of the future where faith outweighs cheapness. When things fall apart, these days will only get better. When the mind has caved in from doing what it doesn’t want to, it will be reborn. The stars are markers to where we need to be, and as the shadows curl around my waist and drag me down, I don’t fight them. There’s no point. It’s a dream we needn’t wake from, and as she sings a song without sound, my heart is hers and hers alone. It’s not love; it goes deeper than that.