Author S. K. Nicholas

It rains for all the dead animals, and for all those that died too soon. It rains for all the lovers, and for all those with no love left to give. The streets are empty; they breathe for no one. Raining for hours on end, it rains in my heart as well. There are images, sometimes words. There are bodies in flight upon bedsheets that have seen better days, and there are imprints of teeth on porcelain thighs. The front door of a house you once knew is slightly ajar, and as you step inside, the ghosts of smiling faces reach out to you from picture frames that have fallen to the floor. It could be weeks since you last saw them, but then again, it could be months. Feelings that were once fresh are now raw, and as the light fades from the sky, a lone child runs through a forest with no way of getting back home. Sleep should come, but every time I close my eyes, there’s only the sensation of being someplace I have no recollection of. The body of one I once possessed is in my arms again with her scent smeared all over my flesh, and yet she is absent, the way lovers often are. Doors open in a gust of wind, then slam shut as the distant sounds of windchimes caress the nape of my neck. Corridors carry echoes of laughter, and yet there are no shapes, only the outlines of those who were too weak to see another day. So cruel is this life. So vengeful to those whose only fault was in wanting to feel something other than remorse. Eying up the clock that hangs on the kitchen wall, there are ornaments that speak to me of so many stories the world has forgotten. Time has stood still, and yet it has moved on- spiralling out of control like those stairwells from my youth that took me places no drug could ever come close to. Addicts and daydreamers, arm in arm like stars in the throes of death.