I'm more alone when I am with him than when I am not. he's going through this thing, this big thing in his life, and he can't talk about it. won't talk about it. says its private. I have to respect that. but still, it makes me lonely. it makes me unable to talk about the things that are bothering me, which are so much less. it makes me feel inadequate, for how can someone go through this and not need to talk about it. he must, he just doesn't need it from me. so we just go on (I go on) talking about fake things, and pretending its all fine. I guess all this independence just readies each of us for leaving the other. but part of me would rather it end with a bang. like it meant something.

he used to tell me that he couldn't sleep at night, he wanted so badly to fuck me. now its never about fucking me. he touches much of my body like he almost thinks I'm beautiful. but he never says that. and he never touches the parts that count with anything close to enthusiasm. he never says more than he likes the way my ass looks in a certain pair of underwear. after two years, I want him to like more than that.

he thought it was amusing, the other day, when one of my (high maintenence but fabulous) friends said he should tell me I look beautiful, as I walked by on my way out from the gym, hot and sweaty and nowhere close to attractive. he knew that a compliment such as that would only make me uncomfortable. and unbelieving. and he was right. but even if I were to be unbelieving, I wish he would still say it, every now and then.