There it is again — this feeling of wanting to jump inside her chest, to be infleshed, full inside, nestled and beating. It is the only way to describe this love. It’s not sexual — it lacks that same sort of longing — but it’s friend-like in a way that I don’t know. It’s love, but friend love — fierce, full friend-love, big love, open-sky love, and if there’s a little bit of greed in there, then it’s a thirsty love. It’s a recognition love, comfy divan chaise sunlight-in-the-face closed-eye love, water lapping love, it’s twisted insides love, gratitude love, we’re-on-this-earth knowing love, and my hands are useless on this love, waving this way and that looking for something that could be held, some motion that makes any sense of this, in a world where touching is not enough, where movement, while impelled, has no root, has no cause, has no direction, no resting place, where movement becomes its own object of love, mute, graceful, arms waving and holding what it can, letting go, holding again under the clear certainty that this, this holding and letting go won’t end, and knowing, too, that it will, and how the continuation and the ending are both true.