i loved when he held his hands over my ribs spreading his fingers and feeling the bone beneath the skin and the way he’d move his thumbs over my ******* and how he’d rest his chin on my shoulder so i could press my lips over his cheek and cheekbone and the side of his nose and his jawline and his ears and his hairline and the pink corner of his lips.
i loved the way he made me feel beautiful, like an actual human being with an actual body like this, and wow the way he made my ******* beautiful not just parts of my body but life-giving and gorgeous, and how my skin wasn’t just skin, it was me, it was humanity, and my hips were so curvy and they were those of a woman, just like every other woman that had ever walked this earth.
wow.
who knew fingers could feel like this? could make me feel like this?
humanity is so beautiful,
isn’t it?

a song. “400 lux,” you said. “lorde.”
i nodded. i knew it. i loved it.
we’re never done with killing time, can i **** it with you?
first driving so slow, creeping through the dark suburban roads, the car’s headlights sweeping over front lawns and pale bitumen, breaking through the shadows from the trees on the nature strips.
then driving fast, on the highway, on the overtaking lane all the way to the city, where we wander aimlessly street by street for a long time but it’s really only an hour or so.
and then where we crash - a cosy little coffee shop with dim lighting and low seats - open twenty-four hours and the perfect place for you and me and other people like us, because there are others like us, i know it. i see them in the passing windows of crawling cars and across the cafe at two thirty am when i’m sipping my hot chocolate and holding your hand over the coffee table.
“do you ever yell at people ‘i want to *******’ but like in your head?” you asked.
i tilted my head and nodded a little.
you nodded too, leaning back in your seat relieved. “yeah. good. me too.”
and so it goes.