I'd love to climb a mountain and reach the highest peak, but I don't enjoy it half as much as dancing cheek to cheek

I detest that all I can write about is you, but if I'm truly pathetic here, I won't be in actuality.

So.

When I curl up on the sofa, I like to pretend you're there, but I know it's not the real you I'm pretending, it's you but you're not you because I'm pretending that you'll say things in a different tone to how you do now, it's a tone I've seldom heard you ever use. I'm adoring a manifestation of my own making. I might resolve to sort it out after the holiday when we are face to face.

You know all about this, and I think you don't feel the same way. I shouldn't fantasise because it isn't harmless. I used to feel like I was iron among glass, crack crack crack, and now you make me feel like someone else is iron too. Then again, sometimes I can't stand you.

I don't know why I have to keep reworking this by writing it out. I know exactly how it is, and how I'm floundering utterly.

Here's how it would go:

I'd come round to yours and we'd sit about for a while, chatting about nothing in particular and everything as usual. We'd tease each other. We usually end up stretched out on your bed in reality, only you always push me away after a bit, even if you're the one that's initiated it.

This time you wouldn't push me away. You'd nudge my head a bit and kiss my cheek, and I'd respond by kissing you back. Then I'd smile a bit. You'd say, in your tired happy voice, something like, "Oh, you're so hideously ugly". I'd respond with, "At least I'm not growing back testicles," but I'd say it softly. Then I'd stroke your face and kiss you again.

I like that little noise you make when you're tired and you sit down, or when you're frustrated with yourself. You're too goddamn beautiful for your own good, and I'd like to be able to tell you that, even if it's only by intonation when I tell you you're hideous.