We sat in your car under the lighthouse beam and told each other what we thought was real. I think I said, I think I love you, uncertain then as now. You questioned it, as you always would, but didn’t stop stroking my hair. Both of us wanted to believe in something then, more than lust and electricity, a renewable energy. There was beauty to be caught and revelled in. Once it was captured we starved our imaginations, taking turns in ignoring the other. Eventually we were wrecked in rocky tempest, divided, as the lighthouse breaks open the night.
Nic Addenbrooke is a freelance writer, editor, content creator, radio broadcaster, part-time poet and sometimes artist. Nic has been coming to terms with existence for years. He currently lives and works in Brisbane where he struggles to turn the cacophony of voices in his head into things of substance. It doesn’t always work but occasionally produces a nice veneer of sanity.