Author S. K. Nicholas

The flooded quarry is a sight for sore eyes, as is the memory of her rising to the surface and gasping for air against the raging undercurrent. Sketching droplets of water that hang just out of reach into my Moleskine, I’m wondering if she could be a lover or a whore, or if I’m lucky, maybe both. She contains within her a lake that’s holy as it is ethereal. She’s an island that floats in time just the same as I’m sure her breasts float in a bath full of soapy water. As the day drags on and our skin burns like paper, the messages I wrote her are as lost as the memories of our first kiss. Was it by the library or the train station? The park or the steps of the town hall? Which breast did I suckle first, and which of us was the first to strip naked to reveal the terrible truths of our mortal bodies? We are lovers of a solitary pastime. We are dreamers in love with the pursuit of something we know will always escape us, and yet which we try capturing just the same. Like a dream, she rises until my grubby hands push her down. So soft and lonely and as weightless as an eyelash, she sleeps on a blanket of dead leaves as my pen does its best to put into words the nature of her deviant ways.