Suspicions of destiny and wordless intuition regarding the shape of your hips. In the fog by the lake, children play on thin ice, and even though they might fall through, it’s OK, because the angels above are watching over them. On a tree by the bridge, the one where your sister once scrawled crude drawings of men with no clothes on, I pick up a piece of chalk and draw your smile. When I’m done, I place my signature beneath your chin and toss the chalk high above the leafless trees. It snows and then it rains. You fly and then sink beneath the waves. If you took off that dress and blew smoke into my face, would my fingers itch with excitement or nerves? Would these bones of mine grow hard or would they melt like wax lyrical? Attraction is deceit- it’s a snake that slithers around the waist of a girl with brown eyes and a nose that sits just right beneath my teeth. In an elevator somewhere in New York, I pull you in and kiss your neck as Central Park is blanketed in white. From so high up we are almost angels ourselves. Away from that which can harm us, I tell you to close your eyes. When you do, I place my lips upon yours and tell you how it will be, that you’ll be the mother to my child. That I’ll take you to a faraway place and make you my woman, and that for the rest of my life, I’ll do my best to paint pictures in words that capture your myriad ways.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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