There’s music that drifts to us from the radio, but it’s as dead as the cunts that make it. The only music we need is that of the sounds emanating from our bombed-out hearts. Imagine all the streets on fire as we chew a piece of gum and swap it between our foaming mouths. Imagine passing it back and forth all through the night until one of us gets the guts to swallow it. Maybe I’ll spread you wide and peer into the universe. Maybe I’ll fade away as you suck air and shudder losing the feeling in your fingers and toes. In your skull, there are broken wings and spiral staircases that lead to the top deck of a bus. Sat together with linked fingers, I point out all the places from my childhood until you feel sleepy and rest your head on my shoulder. There are so many fields and parks and shops and bars and clubs and each place waves at me but by the time I find the right words to reply they’ve disappeared. Days. Weeks. Hours. Minutes. Sniffing your hair, I feel my heart beat faster and faster until I think I’m gonna puke. Telling me to stop being so melodramatic, you squeeze my thigh and kiss me on the nose before burying your face somewhere between my beard and neck. The sky looks so dark, and the lights of faraway towns shine so pretty. These moments, they send ripples through space like gravitational waves caused by merging black holes and no matter how many times they tell me I’m made of stone, I know I’m flux and made of stars and always will be. A few words. An ounce or two of the soul. There are lights, and there are doors. So many, many doors.
A Journal for Damned Lovers UK
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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