Brighton. 3 pounds and 8 pence. I had to buy 10 pencils and a whole pad of paper.

This is what I want. The urge to write, before it goes, because I've just been living and know there was something special about it. It's special every day.
Right now I'm good, it's 8pm, I'm knackered, can't walk straight and nearly got runover. But I'm walking to the train station and I'm pretending to myself that I'm part of this noisy funny group of people. It's funny to me anyway, they don't know I'm pretending. They don't know I just got what I want.
What I want is not staring into someone's eyes, promising years of the awkwardness of the mundanity. I want the awkwardness of funny new encounters. I want the conversations we do because we want to talk but don't quite know how to talk together. Knowing it will come.
I want the awkwardness of going back to their place, knowing full well there's nothing to do there but each other.
Somehow, through lapses of varying akwardness so blatant it honestly isn't, we're there.
I'm there in the darkness of our mouths, light absent because I'm seeing with my tastebuds now and all else is forgotten but my hand on his penis and his hand on my vagina. If medidation is undadultered concentration on the present moment then I'm there. The tunnelled vision into the triangular loop that we are. I don't care for the dripping pussies and hard dicks, I want the ones full of sweat and blood and salty and sour because they're the ones we have. And I don't want the mind numbing orgasm, I want the one that makes me want to cry and hug it's creator. I want the beauty you can't place, the one that makes you smile and want to look some more.

I want the like-drunken walk home. If I was told my rhubarb ice cream had been mdma spiked I would not be surprised -- the elation of the attraction, the glory of the connection then the dispair of the separation. This is what people mistake for LOVE, for FEELINGS. This is what people think you base a long term full blown relationship on. The fact that they feel good together and bad appart and wait for texts to vibrate their phones and suddenly stop in the middle of the washing up because their mind was elsewhere lingering on the memory of a body. This is not.

But I think that yes, /because/ I do I want to see this person every day and would jokingly consider giving up my job so we can go back to the luxury of student life of spending entire days in bed; then we should. It's.nothing.more.than.that.