Author S. K. Nicholas

He is the rain on a cold grey day—

the arthritis that ravages my bones

and when he breathes, it’s a Nor’easter wind—

I’m blown apart; shattered;

scattered; kicked about like autumn leaves,

dead

Unwritten letters from our post-mortem breathe life into her apparition

Like the weather; she returns to season fresh wounds

Blood pressure tantamount to a volcanic mountain; she hikes my temperature

Fuego, fuego! I give him fever; raze his green earth

while he does freeze mine

I exhale phantoms in billowing bursts

and weep for the fugitive memories

Her frosted ribcage collides with the arson in my heart; two souls, cremated

We paint every town red;

Ours is a match that burns all bridges

We’re on a road to revive the great depression

Ghouls are we without restitution—

to Hell with intuition

Gods warring are we without resolution—

fuck the institution

I suck on his brimstone,

a…