Down by the river on a bed of leaves, we shed our skin and touch. We are lovers high on romance. We are lovers drunk on each other’s bodies and a mixture of vodka and gin and random shots of something that has left us with tears in our eyes. With your hands above your head, you submerge them in the cold, green water that flows so slowly without a reason why. Whispering into your ear, I tell you things no one else knows, things that have been kept inside through fear, the same fear I tasted on your lips the night we first met. The newspapers tell us that we are close to war. It’s on TV, too. But then we always are, and the saddest part is that we are even at war with ourselves and will continue to be until the day we die. Looking into your eyes, I can see you’re wearing the mascara you stole from Boots. Told you not to, but what good did it do? Still, you look so beautiful, and yet… And yet there will be a day when we go our separate ways and these tender moments will be left to fade. It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all, but how sad to think that there will come a time when moments such as these will be wiped from existence? Maybe it’s the booze talking, or it’s just my writer’s mind going into overdrive because of the fear brought on by the missiles North Korea are amassing. Lifting your hands from the river and playing with the curls of my hair, you ask me what I’m thinking, but I tell you none of this. Instead, I rest my head on your chest and describe the dream I had last summer where the earth was knocked off its orbit and shunted into outer space. It was a warm and bright day, and I was walking down the street of a local town by the name of Ampthill when the ground shook and the skies were sucked of all their matter. Within seconds the land was plunged into darkness, and as the air in my lungs ran dry, I turned to my right and could just about make out a young girl looking at me from the window of a library. She was waving, and as my vision dissolved, I couldn’t figure out if she was waving hello or goodbye. Raising my head, I ask you what it could mean but you give no reply. With a faint smile spread across your painted lips, you’ve silently slipped into sleep.
S. K. Nicholas is blogger at myredabyss.com and author of A Journal for Damned Lovers. To learn more about S.K. and A Journal for Damned Lovers read Jasper Kerkau’s interview with S.K. and his review of A Journal for Damned Lovers.