sometimes i trace my own hip bones in the dark, and run my fingertips over the curvature of my spine, pretending the warmth belongs to someone else. i speak my own name in my mind, imagining it's syllables spoken tenderly by a lover's tongue, each letter dripping with sugar. my fingertips itch for closeness, and curl around imaginary fingers, like wishful muscle memory. i have so much love to give. i have so much love to receive.