Nicole Jackson
I met her in the city's silent veins,
Where neon flickers like forgotten flames.
It was Christmas — a holy night,
Yet her smile outshone every light.
Nicole Jackson — a name etched in song,
A melody where nothing felt wrong.
She lived on 7th, behind the old café,
But where I slept, she’d never say.
We met where the world stood still,
Hands entwined, hearts warm and real.
Parks heard our laughter, streets knew our kiss,
Each moment with her, an eternal bliss.
We spoke of stars and ancient skies,
Of futures drawn in lovers’ eyes.
I kissed her beneath a winter moon,
Whispered, “I’ll make you mine soon.”
Then Easter came with sacred grace,
I saw the sun rise in her face.
After church, in the soft spring air,
I took her hand with gentle care.
I reached inside my coat, heart racing fast,
Pulled out a ring, sealed to last.
Her eyes lit like dawn on quiet seas,
She nodded once — her soul said “please.”
I kissed her deep, her breath was mine,
The world around us ceased to shine.
In secret hours we made love slow,
Like rivers to oceans, steady they flow.
Then night returned, I went alone,
To call her once I reached my home.
But silence answered — just a ring,
Three times I tried, felt everything.
The next day’s dusk, I went again,
Her house was locked — like time in chain.
No trace, no word, no echo found,
Just wind that wept without a sound.
Five days turned into endless years,
Still I search through hope and tears.
Nicole, oh Nicole, where did you go?
What truth lies beneath this snow?
Some say angels love and leave,
That beauty is too bright to grieve.
But I still walk 7th street at night,
Looking for your vanished light.
Copyright ©
Chanda Katonga
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