I want to fall through the stars straight into your arms.

Anyone who ever held you, would tell you the way I'm feeling.

The only thing I ever wanted was the feeling that you ain't faking. Wait a minute, can't you see?

I adore her, and I saw her today. She's lovely. I ate 1350, which is good, and did about a four mile walk.

I adore her when she's nervous and comes off wrong, even more so when she's comfortable and kind. She touched me three times today. Twice at her house- pat on the hand as I took tea, and a hand on my shoulder as I got in her way when she looked for milk, once as I was skipping about and tripped over a hoover. Silly little trifling incidences. She's got a light, gentle touch. Pacifying. I wonder how I look to her. I just want to make her feel comfortable.

She's got blonde hair that she always wears in a ponytail with a dead central severe parting. She's got this lovely dip in her waist, out to breasts and hips. She's got shrewd pretty blue eyes behind wire rimmed glasses and a hint of her cheekbones under very fair eyebrows, so fair she looks faintly surprised a lot of the time. There's a dimple in her chin, and in her cheeks if she smiles. She's shorter than I am (by about four or five inches) and curvier. She gains and loses weight a lot, amount wise rather than frequency. I love the lines of her. In and out and around. She tans easily, and her upper lip quirks up revealing white teeth. She's got a narrow nose. She has a nervous mannerism of opening her mouth and closing it, almost like a wince, which has reduced in the past few years but not disappeared entirely. She did martial arts which is reflected in the defensive state of her. Men touch her breasts without consent. She goes about in fleeces, trainers and trousers. Two men, to my knowledge, have done this; a drunk on a night out, and a man in an old people's home. She has a habit of bundling her breasts under her folded arms, away from that unwanted attention she feels they are responsible for, but I would like to tell her not to squash herself up into a little huddle. That I adore her fat or thin, I like her just as she is, however she is, because her body is only the expression of her, and it's her I adore. She has not had a relationship; perhaps because she is scared that who she sees will only see breasts, or only see something she despises about herself. Well, I adore each and every part of her. She doesn't go out drinking or dancing- she is far too self conscious for either pursuit. I want to dance quietly and slowly with her in a darkened room. I want to lie with her in her bed and make her feel as comfortable and safe and excited as I do when she's around. I want to touch her ears, her lovely face, the nape of her neck, the small of her back and her knees.