You live like a back-to-front knee-high pair of white school socks. You walk in a world where footsteps touch the heavens and your fingers are left to trail across rays of sun that burn until your tips are red raw from heat and light and other kinds of energy that scientists haven't discovered yet. Solar. Potential. Nuclear. Scorching, and your hair falls into seas so deep that your eyes find creatures you never knew existed and giant squids (more giant than the most giant squid that lies lonely in a museum, cold and dead) get tangled in hair so red and yellow it clashes too bright with the blue. It gets darker the further down you go, and it's a navy sort of black as far as your eyes can see. You wonder what it's like even further down, where your split ends float. Maybe you can't see a thing. Maybe it's hot. Maybe your hair fell so far it got locked in the earth and when you try to wake yourself up from this and lean upupup and out, you'll get caught, and strain, and tear your hair from your head and leave it so that seathings can make homes of it the way birds do with shedding dogs'.

It's become a case of not you or me, but of you or you or bubbles that escape your nose from laughing too much, from taking too much, from being persuaded too much and letting me(you)(us) down too much. It's you or hysteria, in which I might be a part of but maybe a part you despise, maybe a part that is willing, but I don't know because when you whisper in my ear you tell me nothing at all. Words to you are like memories, things I'm already aware of but already distorted by time and biasness and things that crawl through your brain for twenty minutes before you need more. It's sickening. You're sickening. I hate it. And yet...words dribble from your mouth in such sweet stupidity that no one can hear but they try to listen, anyway. Because words from your tongue have a rather concerning effect on most people - inexplicably soothing and overpowering, sauntering from one ear to the other like they have all the time in the world. Within seconds, you're quiet. And it's sad. Your presence, almost, is enough - a picture paints a thousand words, but even so, if I could listen all day I would. Even if everything you said was nonsense, even if I didn't want to listen, I would.

You live in a world where the sky is orange and the earth is made of coral seas, rouge earth, flowers blooming in black and white because a greyscale is just too taxing. You dress in neon colours even when pastels are in-season, and dancing jitterbugs and loose twirls when everyone else shimmies and grinds and shakes their fists. You're like a lost end in the middle of tightly wrapped stitches who look the same, talk the same...they're different to you. Indifferent to you. And yet in the late hours of early morning it's just you and them left, sharing sweetness in the form of falling down throats and traipsing round the body once more. You soak in misery when your temperaments are at their highest, and I don't understand it, I never did, but I think I understand you and I thought that would help but you change and you think and you see things I can't and then you shake hard like something's terrifying you and I wonder if it's me.

You live and you die at once, you're living like it's so amazing to live when you're killing yourself because you don't want to die. It should have been easier. You should have been better, because now you're getting worse. And worse. And worse. And this time there's no parallel, no way to make out you're getting better, because it's wrongwrongwrong and there was never a way I could fix it, anyway.

I saw your name written in the stars and it made me smile because usually we can't see the stars from here. The sky was clear and the ground was cold, but I stayed there anyway because the moon was almost full and I don't think I've ever seen anything like it before. Maybe I haven't.

Your name's a nice name, though. It's pretty and simple and not ugly like 'Gertmein' or 'Vladimir' or odd names like that. It's a nice name, and it didn't capture my attention at first, but it feels nice when I say it, and say it again, and mix it in with other words that sound just as nice but aren't really. But nothing's as nice as your name, really. Not even you. You're not nice. You're arrogant and handsome and funny and dangerous and not nice, but you're so yes and I don't know how to stop myself from tracing your tattoo onto the sky to see if I can make a new constellation.

It's been a long time. So long. And you're looking at me like it's been a long time and it has and all I want is you, and your name, and your smirk and your eyes and your t-shirt, because it's comfy and fits me better than my own ever could. You wear sunglasses a lot, dark Ray-Bans or gold-rimmed aviators that make you seem that much more appealing, even if they do hide the prettiest green there ever was. The rest of you isn't very pretty - it's tall and sculpted and indecently good-looking and sometimes it's hard to be with someone so much better looking at me, but then you'll give me that look, that one, and it doesn't mean I love you, it means something so much better, and it's all I could ever ask for.

The first time you said it to me, the very first time, I was walking home after some party or other and you came out of nowhere, your eyes flashing and you had an arm around my waist and you kissed me like dangerous boys do and then you said it, you actually said it, I need you and I told you I loved you even though we both know I shouldn't. We were trashed and I couldn't find my keys so we went to the park and stayed there all night, the moonlight falling short of the ground because clouds swooped in and took it all away. We lay on the grass and sang Hey Hey Girl and Fluorescent Adolescent and I knew you were special even before you knew all the words to Chelsea Dagger.

You're a magnificent specimen, a beautiful creature, and I don't know what they did but whoever made you did a pretty fine job of creating the most independent miscreation of broken nightmares in the world. I bet you were born in the clouds. It would look so good, and you always look so, so good. You're a wild young thing and I can't tame you because I want to be just like you. I'm young and I'm a thing, but I'm not wild and outrageously wonderful like you are.

Maybe I should stop talking about you. Maybe I should talk about myself. I was an odd little thing, the only times I captured attention was when I was clumsy and people could see me, this big, tall, ridiculous thing clambering around before trying to become graceful. Sometimes I was graceful, and when I walked my hips moved just so and my back was straight and I could stride with ease, like I owned the place. Other times my joints felt strange and I could only wobble on unbearably sore feet and I felt like I was just too much, too much. Sometimes my fringe looked oily and my skin was too shiny and my lipgloss looked garish, but other times my hair was glossy, my lips were soft, and my skin was the prettiest thing ever. The first time you saw me, that's what I looked like, with powder on my face and blush dusting my cheekbones and a hint of Lovely by SJP on my wrists.

I wasn't quite entranced with you then, but I looked at you from the corner of my eye and you were looking right at me like I was worth little more than dirt. Maybe that was the good thing. The thing that compulsed me to stand up for myself, to shoot back demeaning and witty comebacks at you and whoever else dared to insult me. Maybe it was a good thing I slapped you. It made me feel me and it made you feel me and even if you pretended to be offended, I knew I'd made you smile. I've never really seen you smile, you're mysterious and you lie about so many things, but I'm drawn to you and I'm getting worse.

And now I'm just lying here, writing your name in stars that like to shine, and I'm wishing you were here with me when I know you're blowing cash and getting drunk and I know you're not missing me, even if you're needing me. It's a beautiful night, actually, and I know that on beautiful nights you're being beautiful too.

And then I can see you. You're name's finally written in the stars, interlocking and creating the best thing in space since the big bang. You lie next to me, but then you balance your weight on your elbow so that you're looking down at me, and gods you're so perfect and I wish I was as beautiful. "I need you," you say, and the second your breath hits me I can tell you've been drinking, just like I knew you were, but then you kiss me and I shut my eyes and I lose sight of your name because who needs stars when I've got this?