A little sight, him sauntering over to my side of the bed pantless and looking eager as a child to see me: he had her ******* in mind. I know now, I only feel sympathetic about it, I know it pained him when he touched mine. He said her name so few times I just thought of her as the animal homophone, and if I were anyone else, I would not have worried when he said she thought of him on occasion, because morning came as morning still and he still had a big heart for a liar. The thing is that our rapport was honesty β if I laid on him too heavy, he would request I scoot over if he did not want to sing me a song in that baritone fluid, I would seek another shoreline. Submissive, yet, I would ask him what I wanted without asking if he could simply love being loved, I could not understand. Only a scruffy teddy bear could. But we do not talk about it, maybe I mention a bunny an ex gave me, one I cut the ears off of when the apocalypse came, but he has not a syllable. Nobody wants their lovers to exist with other loves, and sometimes we do not want ourselves to exist with other loves even more so. I only feel sympathetic about it, because I first felt I had a sibling when we connected, became all carnal, sweet nature handed me a body. I only just understood that I was not given the right one.