I want to be called honey or sweetie or baby. I think about the warmth in my heart when I hear my lover call me honey. Honey, like he’s known me for decades and my presence is honey: the good, long way home, like the feeling of the roof of your mouth covered in sweet. And then I say a prayer to the softest parts of me — the space between my breasts, my earlobe, my lips. Hoping he will kiss me there, and everywhere, oh, I want to be kissed everywhere. I want my lip gloss all over his body. I want to feel his head on my stomach after we make love I want to feel hot skin on hot skin I want to taste him. I want to run my fingers over the sky of him, the neverending soft outer space of him. I want and I want and I want but I know these wants will never converge into the precipice of reality. He is not my lover. He has never been my lover. He is just a boy who does not think of me when the night unfolds a long day and I guess I am ok with that. I guess that’s fine. I guess we can exist separately and I can still be in love with touch I have not felt. His touch is something I will never feel and I sleep ok with that, my eyes getting a little wet as I repeat that to myself like a deafening hymn, like an elegy.