A perfect circle of tongues with hips as petals and hands that itch and twitch whenever the moment comes to forget about the world and all of its vices. Stairwells in Manhatten. Streets that flow like rivers as we kick our feet and bite the air because we fear death and sex is our way of tasting what it is to be like God without the need to surrender to the cogs of religion. With teeth white as snow as she leans her head over the side of the bed, her hair touches the floorboards like the leaves of a tree that reach out to touch the sun. Sliding up her top I place my mouth upon her nipple and take her like a king. Honey and milk. Golden flesh and the whites of her eyes that stare at the bedroom wall so empty and alive. Merging like vehicles on the freeway we drown ourselves in wine and suck down the smoke of our cigarettes as a stranger sets fire to homeless people that live on the subway. We’re ten miles high. We’re ghosts and lovers and blood-red phantoms that dance at house parties that exist on the outskirts of a city that speaks to us and us alone of what it means to cut the ties that bind. As she drags her fingernails down the length of my back the walls crumble and the mirror in the bathroom shatters into a billion pieces. The taste of her neck. The feel of her insides against my fingers. Stars. Twilight. Copernicus. Helicopters with blades that chew through the sky like I chew her sex at three in the morning to a soundtrack of Interpol and fireworks. Look at me as we rise. See the man inside as our minds dissolve until all that’s left are the rapturous words that escape our dry and aching mouths that wish to speak but can’t because some emotions are too dangerous to ever say out loud.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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