“When you stand there enchanted by the lights that shimmer on the horizon, I watch you in silence, not wanting anything other than to be in your presence. Because I’m your satellite, and this is what I do.”

S. K. Nicholas


Prisms. Forests. Eyes of autumn and mouthfuls of air that pass from my mouth to yours. Scratches and handfuls of hair and bite marks that might or might not resemble the telltale signs of the stigmata. Looking at you as these thoughts dance through my mind, my tooth hurts, so I down several beers one after the other. I also have a cold, so hopefully, the beer will help with that, too. In the mirror, there’s a version of me that’s the same yet different. Trimming my scraggly beard, you finish washing your hair then stick your head out the window to help it dry. Going at it with a towel is just no good, you say, because it can be damaging, and that won’t do at all. Part of me wants to approach you from behind and slip my hand down your leggings and then into your panties. I want…

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