God damn, Irish, I miss you when you're gone. I don't wait by the window, I carry on. But no matter what I'm doing, you're in the back of my mind. And I'm counting the hours and cursing time.

I have no idea where we're headed, or why you're so scared of me. But I'm enjoying myself almost as much as I'm enjoying you, and I'll guess we'll see.

I'm not sure why rhyming is fun tonight, either.

Seriously, Irish, I know you're not THAT into me. But I'm content with the degree of into-the-me-ness you're experiencing, because it causes you to hold tight everytime we meet, and it lends a kindness to your gaze that I've never had focused on me.

I told my friend I was digging you, he asked if I was in love. I told him I didn't know. He asked me if I'd be sad if you died. I said yes. He asked if I'd be inconsolable. I said yes, for a while. He asked if the very thought was fucking with me a little, and I said yes.

"Boom goes the dynamite," he said, "you're in the first stages of puppy love."

So, puppy love it is. Obviously, I'd like it if it turned into more than that. But honestly, that's later. That's several thousand hugs and kisses, at least a hundred love making sessions, maybe fifty instances of you pretending to eat my nose, and a few joints down the road. So I'm going to enjoy those things, and worry about it later.

I like it when you pick me up like a feather, and call me a scaredy-Jess for squealing and flailing. Next time you do it, I'm calling you a scaredy-Irish for being afraid of a scaredy-Jess. I like it when you're talking about something, whatever it is, and you're so into your eyes are almost glowing. Your eyes are beautiful. I liked it when your tipsy ass grabbed my head, pulled it close, and mumbled "I heart you." I like how you get off on me getting off on the fact that you're getting off on me getting off. I like running my hand over your short short hair, and feeling your sweat flick all over me, as I tighten around you and ride the orgasms you basically hand to me. I like how when I'm tickling you, you state "THAT TICKLES!" As if there's been some kind of mistake, and I can't possibly be tickling you on purpose. I like how safe I feel in your arms, I even like the fact that trying to wrestle something from your hand is pointless. Feminism be damned, I like how strong you are. It's comforting and erotic. I love the way you smell. Not your soap, but the actual Irish smell, the smell of your skin. It's hard to explain. I like how incredibly sweet you are. Sometimes, when I kiss you, I feel you should taste like pure sugar. I like kissing you. And kissing you. And kissing you some more. I love your half-lidded sexual glances. Those do more for me than some men have been able to do with their hands. I liked cuddling with you while you slept. I didn't sleep, just felt you breathe.

But you're so cautious, and when I fall for someone, I fall hard. I'm terrified that miscommunication will end this, that I'll accidentally scare off the scaredy-Irish. That's really what I'm a scaredy-Jess about.

View Thinker #77406d's profile

It's alright, you turned out to be a gigantic dumbass anyway.

View Thinker #77406d's profile

No, not really. Some of them are just too broken for my broken self to save, some just love someone else. Only a few are actively assholes. I'm glad he's an asshole. It's making this easy. I haven't cried, I'm not miserable. I'm disappointed and sad, but I'm not flipping my shit.

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