Just a short ode.
Toscar: to me, you will always be Pinkie. You’ve got ‘rebel’ running through you like a stick of Brighton rock. I know you hate it when I’m romantic, but it’s just the way I’m built and I know that you enjoy it really, deep down, somewhere inside that caged heart of yours. Why the fuck would you be with me if you didn’t love the way I loved you?
I Love: Your Face.
The changing weather of it. Your eyes that silently pick up lost details. I’ve always loved the colour green. I love the shape of your face too, a real perfect heart for my unromantic boy. Your lips are pink and forever chapped like you’ve been kissed too often.
I Love: Your Voice.
“Fack orf, Arfur!” Oh man, it’s like terrible music. I love walking through Hackney and thinking that every voice I hear could be yours. You’re not Eliza Doolittle, you’re Ronnie Kray – and no-one’s gonna buy your beautiful roses because you certainly aren’t selling any. You have a smoker’s voice, a young smoker’s voice, a voice that avoids rum deals and swears at coppers. If a full-bodied economy cigarette could talk, it would talk like you.
I Love: Your Body.
I love how compact it is, not like me who’s always been graceless. I’m not saying you’ve got grace exactly, but your body is graceful because it is effortless. I love the apples of your shoulders and the way you slouch, the way you wear jeans, the way you never do up your fly all the way. I love the xylophone of your ribcage and the muscles in your back. I think I almost envy them.
I Love: Your Hands And Your Ten Fingers.
A menacing two finger salute, a glorious scissoring, a ‘wanker’ gesture, an exasperated flap, a slow hand clap. The bitten off boyishness of your fingernails. The ragged cuticles. The tattoo on your knuckle. Your hands that can crush walnuts. I love that your hands are always certain, which is a rare thing indeed. Trust me, I know.
The Way You Drink.
Like it’s a race. Like it’s a bet. The way you gulp. You dare alcohol to get you drunk.
I Love: Your Sense Of Humour.
You are the most quick witted person I’ve ever known. Your comebacks are instant, and the funniest thing of all is that you’re always surprised when you make me laugh. I remember the time it snowed, and you looked out of the window at the crazy traffic and said ‘What is it – six inches worth of snow? Six inches. That’s about the size of your average dick. An average dick – and the whole of London’s getting fucked by it.”
I Love: Your Heart.
Shut up, you have got one. You don’t show it in the things you say Toscar, it’s in the things that you do. Bringing me a Kinder Egg each time you come to visit. Looking up my side-effects on Wikipedia. Being kind to my sister. Being good.
I Love: How You Bully Me.
You think that everything I do is posh – cleaning under my nails, wearing a dressing gown, owning a butter knife, using liquid soap, saying TV instead of ‘telly’. It takes effort to take the piss as thoroughly as you do, and it always makes me laugh, and it always makes me feel silly and schoolboyish and young and in love.
I Love: The Way You Fuck.
I could go into every detail but I won’t. I love the way you take control, the way you know me and my invisible limits, the way you kiss, the way you storm at me from nowhere, the rhythm of you, the charisma of you, the roughness of you, and the lightness too.
I Love: How You Rebuilt My Faith.
And I think that one speaks for itself.