I want flesh-and-blood laughter; it’s all a matter of simple sentences, not convenience. I want long weekends and Wednesday nights, my teeth in the meat of him. I want to feel the sound our breaths make after release and the weight as it becomes noise again. I want our Zero point charted and undone. I want to make sense of all the unwound threads. I want split-seconds of awe, and rooftop sighs, eyes closed, fingers entwined. I want Sunday and Tuesday, pale and bare, as a fixed point behind those pressed eyes. I want adventure again and philosophy hikes. I want long drives, side-by-side. I want lips that matter, hugs that heal and soft, white sheets as the slip into slow sex becomes this thirst. I want to fuck and meet the light in his eyes. I want to paint poetry and breathe without pain. I want to create and dream and do. I want something—something I haven’t the name for, or words, or understanding. I want something—something more.