Waning crescents in tiny constellations dug into my skin, zodiacal passions. I ply my nails into their lines, seeking to reignite the pleasure that had lain beside them in the pain. In their incitement; the smell of gin, cool and sharp; loss and comfort; dark witticisms in chastising British lilt; soft violence willingly perpetrated; a deposed star fallen into my arms. How she would look beyond my grasp and say, ‘I want you,’ painting herself on the horizon. When I calculate the lights from heaven, most of them are dead, all that I can ever love are their ghosts.
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.