I sleep on the floor, like so many times before. In search of an escape, I break apart so I may squeeze what’s left of me through the slithers of light that isn’t light at all but the memories of what once was. I am a streetlight. I am a coffin. Talking of memories, the many folds of her sex linger upon my lips the same as this cigarette. It’s been so long, and yet it’s as if it was only yesterday. Growling dogs growl at my cigarette as it points to the ground. The ground is sand, the same as my shifting hands that shift around her shifting hips. The dogs stand on their hind legs begging for food, but I haven’t eaten in close to three days. I’ve nothing left to give. The last thing I remember eating was her, and that was all about desire and nothing to do with sustenance, although it has to be said, her juices got me drunker than I care to remember. Neon stores are whores drawn to the mountains that populate my mind. My mind is opaque. It drowns in darkness the colour of love or the shade of skin in the circles beneath her knowing, glowing eyes. There are snippets of videotape containing images of her breasts and the flared nostrils of a nose sculptured by a drunk god two days into a three-day bender. These videotapes are buried in the yard along with my stash of favourite pornos and the remains of the girl she used to be before we first met. A little wind outside and a gentle breeze within that carries the smoke around my bony fingers that tap tap tap the keys of a piano. A few years of muddled thoughts that became my life’s work without me even knowing. I know very little, especially about myself. Another cigarette. Toffee-coloured areoles. Strands of hair on the passenger seat that could be mine or hers. Picking them up, I sniff the scent of autumn and the spicy tickle of scorched engine oil. Through the lens of a camera, she turns her head, and the horizon spreads like marmalade on toast. Ten thousand windows and not one useful image that tells the story of the boy who became a shadow of a man. Such stories—I’m told—are considered lost. I consider them very much alive. Like the dirt beneath my fingernails as I roam the surrounding hills in search of sanctuary, or the many cocoons that have seen me pass from one shape to the next as if such transformations were the norm and not the exception. These hills. These memories. They escape me still. Penetration. Husk. A body without a soul without a reason why. Something angelic must follow. Like a redemption song sung by an ‘80s version of Paul McCartney, or the ringing bells of Christmas past that ring out as Scrooge slips and slides upon the thin ice of pungent, Victorian life.
A Journal for Damned Lovers UK
A Journal for Damned Lovers US
Categories: Love
Author S. K. Nicholas 
Welcome back!
Thank you! 😊
Great piece, fit my mood like a glove.
Haha! Seems as though I heard your call 😊
Yes, you generally do that!
With Erik Satie’s Gymnopedies as background this time.
I’ve never before listened to Satie, at least not knowingly. I shall do so now 🙂
Warning: It’s sad. But nostalgic too. I hope you’ll like him.
Sad and nostalgic.. that about does it for me 😉
I thought so! Look for Gymnopedies 1, 2, 3.
Thank you!
☺️
My favourite Satie is Gnossiene No. 1. So good to see someone else who appreciates him.
Gnossiene 1 is beautiful, and one of my favourite pieces of music too.
Where have you been? I missed you.
Ooohhh what tasty treat does SK have for us again?? I wasn’t disappointed. Is this piece something new??
Haha! Thank you 🙂 It’s a new, one-off piece. I shall resume the second part of my Meeko story very soon x
I really enjoyed this piece. Very good.
So pleased 🙂
It’s wonderful to read you again and this is fabulous, you don’t disappoint SK.
Thank you, H! So pleased you enjoyed this 🙂
So much! Your writing is GOOD. 🙂
Your kindness is so very much appreciated 🙂 x
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The flow in this is insane, I couldn’t stop reading! Amazing read
Thank you ever so much! 🙂
“I sleep on the floor, like so many times before. In search of an escape, I break apart so I may squeeze what’s left of me through the slithers of light that isn’t light at all but the memories of what once was. I am a streetlight. I am a coffin.”
You give me chills, Stephen. It reminds me of how I felt when I first read your words. ❤
Thank you, Allane. I am honoured to have given you those chills. That my words can is a gift to me ❤
Awesome, I’ve been wondering the past few days where I’d lost you
Thank you! So pleased you enjoyed them 🙂
Yay! He returns. Now I have something more gooder to read! 😊 I hope all is well for you, mister.
Haha! Thank you! So pleased to be welcomed back by your good self. I hope my words don’t disappoint 🙂
They never have, not since I first fell in love with your writing on my previous blog and not since this blog, either. Hugs, and happy holidays! I’m on hiatus, but I’ll pop by from time to time. 👍😊💕
I hope you enjoy your hiatus, and that it brings you all that you seek of it ❤
Thank you! ♥️