You you you. Vomit inducing longings.

Tonight we laid in his bed, but I had to go just as we were starting to touch. I didn't want to but I had to.

He insulted my teeth and my fat chubby fingers. I insulted his claw, and his flat feet, and asked if he wore a catheter bag. He put my hand on his as he tried to teach me the piano (which is futile because I'm musically retarded). He wore his Joseph dressing gown, and I stood on his back. He taught me how to project my voice and I laughed at his hairy legs and hairless chest. He laughed at my ex boyfriend and I laughed at his ex girlfriend. All of these events are coloured by my own rose tinted brush.

He said he was a bear. If I had been able to, I would have said that he was wonderful. Or asked what he meant by bear, and told him that though he might not like whatever it was, that I did, and that I knew that my liking his flaws would not be enough but that I did nonetheless. I'd tell him that I adored his clean, pure scent, or his intelligence, or the simple way that he is the epitome of civilisation. He is emotionally clumsy, but he is a machiavelli, he's everything. Or put my hand on his shoulder, nestled into the warmth of his back and kissed his beautiful soft face, it has the texture of silk. I told him that it was soft, and I stroked his face, but it wasn't as good as kissing it.

I wanted to tell him that his body is a marvel. It isn't the conventional adonis; his legs are fairly muscular, and he's very tall. He's very broad and quite fat with slim arms. I like it all.

As it was, I laughed and said he had soft skin, and touched them, and stroked his hair. I adore his hair. He held my hand for a while. God, it makes my stomach squinch to think of it, and I need to let this go because he doesn't love me.