I am highly suggestible.

So when I read these stupid books, my heart catches in my throat and I want to love like they do, for all their fear and obstacles.
It also makes me want to be with him.
For him to know what I look like with my soft green (wedding dress colour) gingham blanket wrapped around me (and that's all) or the way I look with tenderness in my eyes (I don't know but I want him to know) and to know what my fingers feel like on shoulder blades and lips and soles of feet and on calves and smalls of backs or my breath on napes or chests or foreheads. To know the curve of my body and spoon, and to have touched every inch of me.
But that's all stupid.
All unattainable. Things that make the waits unbearable.

So I should maybe just read Cathy's book about Feminism.