I have this boy, and he types things to me that I have to read and re-read and pull apart and place my own meaning to, so our conversation can progress. He writes poetry that I actually do think is good, and would still be were he to just be a random man. He makes out like he loves me, and crafts this world in which we might oneday live. There's a tower, and matresses, and I plan to chain-smoke and masturbate while he writes. We're perhaps going to have one child. I want to call it maudline, but I'm not sure he's too keen. He's going to go to Cambridge, and meet interesting people and I'll warp myself into an alcoholic at Lancaster and sells my underwear for cigarette money. If I need anything more than cigarettes, which I inevitably will, I'll move onto my real underwear. The things that are completely under me, inside of me, I carry always. We first met physically inside the mess of Norwich, and spent the day sitting on grass. He has toes which are like tiny version's of a fist, each toe like a shrunken individual finger. His fingers are sharp and they grasp and pinch me when we walk through the street. If I'm not prepared, I have to stop myself crying out. I don't want it to stop. When he clutches me like that, I feel like a tether for him, something he has to grab before he falls, or I do. Or perhaps before we float into the sky. We would go somewhere apart, unless he keeps holding on like that. He greets his dog-pets and I want to see a family and a house and a ring on my finger dissolving into what's real. He lives in the countryside, among plants and dead animals. He is the skinniest boy, and when we hug i dissolve him into me. He has these eyes, looking like someone has forced coal into his face and peeled back the skin so he can blink. He read me to sleep, using McEwan, and I woke in the fuzziest brightness of words and his arm.