He wrote. He does love me after all. The mail has just arrived.
"In my life I haven’t said the words ‘I love you’ many times. Especially not ‘I adore you’. But you are an exception. For some reason an exception. Someone for whom, because of whom, I have violated all the rules. All my principles. It’s a fact that I haven’t always behaved in a predictablenormal way, but some things have changed since then, and I have become more-intelligent-more-grown-up-more sane-smarter-wiser than I was. I know now what I want. I know who I want. You. So that you can be the one for my bed. So that you can be the one on whose shoulder I sleep. So that I can always put my legs on your legs. So that I can stick my tongue in your ear, in your mouth. So that I can feel you. So that I can smell you. So that you can attack me. So that I can attack you. So that we can pain each other. So that I can be your thistle, your bird, your everything. So that you can be my thistle, my bird, my everything. So that myour test pilot, before-after-during peeing ... (And you drove me crazy. You drove me insane. I don’t even know whether I am a girl or a boy!) Be my cycling partner. Forever. Amen. "
I think I’ll pass out now.
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