Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I never could explain why. Little, nothing touches. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn’t explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love? Why does anyone ever make love?
- my bf: *doesnt reply*
- me: [fuck this, I can do so much better than this ashy ass bitch. what am I supposed to do with some lil dick for the rest of my life anyways??? let me call his best friend MATTER OF FACT LET ME CALL HIS BROTHER. he’s not even that cute for me to be stressing over him. only reason I dated him is cause my girl told me to give his lil ugly ass a chance I'm over it tho, next! ha ha!]
- my bf: my bad I had to pee.
- me: I thought you did! wassup babe 😍😛