Oh my beauty.

You're my beauty, my love, my darling, my dearest, my K...., my partner, my confidante.

You fold yourself up and squash yourself down and you're just lovely, let it out.

You get hung up on stupid things and worry too much and let trifles consume you.

You own a pair of scales I'm sure you hate.

You're not in the least seductive, sexy (what a ridiculous word), alluring, you don't try to be... which, to me, makes you all three of those things. You turn me on, and I don't mean that in the usual sense that conjurs up images of erections, groaning and mess. I mean that when I see you, it's as if there's been a button pressed inside me that fills me with air and light, that makes me feel as if I'm tipping off the ground, like I'm liberated from gravity, like I could spin off any moment. I want to smile and dance and wait for you to touch me, to trip me over the edge of my circuits and off into oblivion. Getting tea from a newsagents becomes a voyage when you're about.

I want to lay with you and make you feel safe and loved, though I wonder, with your experience of love, if you'd want it. If you'd not rather have someone that criticised you, or was less fervent, or was the same as you. Less flip than I am. You keep saying you are straight, and usually I concede the point with women I adore, knowing that they are not interested, but with you I do wonder. If you adore men so much then why...

I could be wrong.