So tonight I saw you. I had been talking to you all day, looking into your eyes and cooly pouring the bile you induced in your lap. Explaining what I knew about your ridiculous activities whilst walking down the street. Demanding explaination whislt in the shower. Silently berating and belittling your selfishness whilst washing up.

But when I saw you I was suddenly meek. How the fuck do you do that to me? You are weaker than me. I can feel you cracking against my strength but yet you manage to weaken me.

Or at least the idea of you allows me to weaken myself. To remember the my worthlessness.

For that, I hate you. And for pretending to give a shit I will never forgive you.

One day, Pad. One day you will hear this.

There's always a her. An other. There's always an alternative banging on the doors of prospectives. She's always chosen. Her faces are like a knife through my being. Her image holds me by the throat. Takes my breath. Saps my energy and drains my thoughts.

Smiling, snuggling soothing smothering suckling at what I had hoped could one day be mine. Nonchalantly bathing in the adoration I could never inspire - all cool crops and flowing locks. Eyes of crisp blue, delecate hazel, deep brown always carrying the same steady self assurance that I could never quite summon.

I feel her on his lips on his hands. I feel his touches on her skin, his arm on her back his face on her chest. I smell him through her perfect nose. My stomach knots with the sensation. My own memories are replaced by the might of her image. There is no touch on my skin. Only hers. I cease to exist in my own mind as well as in theirs.

Being careless and all together too trusting, I left my window slightly open to let some air into my stagnant room. With faith in the universe, defiant of the rules I went out for the day and enjoyed the freshness of the air in my space when I returned.

Lying on my bed I watched a great moth who had found her way in, throw herself blindly, frantically, harmlessly against the walls of my room. Warning me of the insecurity of my situation.

I lay, sleepily reading through a low but increasing awareness of a stroke on my left thigh. High on my left thigh. Silently dismissed by my protective subconcious as the action of the fan I turned to full blast on the loose flimsy shorts I had made the choice to wear.

 Suddenly sickeningly the veil was penetrated and the unatural quality of the feeling filled my head. The intrusiveness. I finally looked directly at the cockroach crawling up my thigh.

I brushed at it. It returned. Agahst at the failure of my only course of action I brushed and swept and hit at my thigh.

Finally I swept it to the mosquito net hanging impotently by my bed.

Knowing it was there, knowing it could take the libery of returning to my thigh I resolved to kill it. Encircling it in the netting I crushed it between my fingers. Over and over. Crunching every plausible pocket that it's persistant life could find to sneak and hide in, in that papery souless body.

Finally it died. I closed my window.

He held my hand and asked me what makes me happy. He told me we were above all this and held my face between his palms. He looked, unflinching, into my eyes and opened his arms to me.

We sat on the sand looking into infinity and talked about life and death and cigarettes

He didn't run from my premature tears and smiled at my immature jokes. He smiled through my immature tears and didnt run from my premature jokes.

Something outside both of us drew it's boundries snug to our bodies tighter and closer until we couldnt move apart.

We turned our back to the tear in the atmosphere, holding our little vacuum tenously intact.

My nerves forming knife sharp sentences stabbing in vein to puncture this unfamiliar bubble. With sharp nasty little words. Shards.

We agreed it wasnt fair. I silently cursed the universe for it's blessing. It's perfect gift, loaned to me when I needed it most - to be returned imminently with a hefty interest.

We ached the same ache and drew comfort from the sharing of it.

I miss you. I never loved you but I miss you sorely. I want you. And I hate you. I trust you. I miss your lies.

 I miss being hurst by you. I miss feeling inadequate around you. I miss feeling paranoid and insecure. I miss feeling your arm across my shoulder, crushed with the knowledge that I could be anyone with a shoulder.

I miss wanting you to shut the fuck up about bands I've never heard of and kiss me. I miss knowing that you will never want me the way I wanted to be wanted. I miss watching you shut me out when I got too close, whilst you never quite let me leave.

I miss walking home, crying. I miss listening to you talk about your distress for hours before belittling mine. I miss you patronising me. I miss you not understanding my humour - watching it go over your head as you continue to talk. I miss you dismissing everything I hold important as nonsense.

I miss trying to work out if I actually find you physically attractive. I miss wincing as you described our fucking as "making love". I miss avoiding your eye as you faked a smile at me.

I miss trying to figure out why I was miserable with you. I miss wondering why we never laugh together.