Just a Slice

He’s my favourite.

S. K. Nicholas

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Just a taste. Just a glimpse of what has never been, not in this life, at least. There are footprints that lead from my room to yours. There are patterns that emerge in the clouds that tell me of your movements and just what you desire at any given time. There is a line that binds us. A state of being that stretches from your fingers to mine. With each cup of coffee, we smoke our cigarettes and thumb through the pages of books with cracked spines and rubbed out titles. With every word that passes back and forth between our mouths, we know and we understand, and this erases the need for the dreadful nothings others have to offer. Those others that would have us believe that what we do is of no consequence. Those empties that spit and rant in the blind belief that their ways are the…

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