Author S. K. Nicholas

My love is to be found in the garbage disposal among soiled nappies and used johnnies. My love isn’t a warning shot; it’s something far more obscure than that. They say a touch becomes a kiss, and a kiss becomes a fuck. Well, it’s something like that, but I’m not sure which. You come across a fine thinking girl, but there’s a trick to figuring out if she’s one to keep or one of those that digs their claws in and won’t let go. The problem is, I don’t know the trick. Never have done. In fact, I don’t know much about anything truth be told. I make it up as I go along. Live on a whim; that’s how it is. These words are mixed together much like the paint that once formed the pillars of my dreams. No science to expression, just an inkling as to what will or won’t work. Too many judge their lives compared to the success of others, but no matter how much I tell them it’s a trap, they never seem to listen. One minute it’s up, the next, down. One minute we’re dancing as if there’s no other way, and then the next we’re passing each other in the street as if we’re strangers. The older I get, the more I want a love without pretension or the fear of not being as good as someone that’s gone before. But I don’t care much for that kinda shit anymore. The more the year’s roll by, the more I see how death rules resolute, and no matter what our achievements, there’s no point to anything other than being close to someone who sees the same things, and who feels the same way. Covered in cold pizza and toilet paper, my love is to be found naked and lonely and waiting for a day when someone comes and washes away the rain.