Monsieur,
It feels so good — it's bad, it's bad, it's bad.
Time spent in your company is invaluable. You make me giggle like a school girl. You're my sweet spot. Time when our realities collide, albeit momentarily. Those hours have a different flavor. Stolen hours. Delicious.
Yesterday proved something important. You're healing to me. Had a shit day, shit mood, was getting annoyed by people just existing — and then you appeared. It didn't make things go away, but it alleviated them tremendously. Smile was brought back to my face. And I didn't get annoyed by you existing. At all. Then I went to sleep in a fairly good mood, all the while feeling melancholic of something I never had: you.
Oh, how I would absolutely adore curling up to you on a sofa… You in your sweatpants, me in my pajama pants. No panties included, if that matters. Letting my fingers trace the cosmos on your chest, before starting seeking for shooting stars here and there.
Yes, yes — I know. I can never have it. Fine.
But I can still do window shopping, right?