In the absence of lover, seek lovemaking in the world. Reimagine what that looks like, what it feels like on the body— or in it. Terracotta. Cerulean blue pillow. The heat. The Texas heat licking the body wet and making no apologies for it. Your feet in somebody’s green grass. Your feet in somebody’s leather hands. Let lovemaking be your hair braided or in love-knots the morning after. Your legs crossed or spread wide open. The woman leaving a bar and making eye contact with you one last time, wishing she said something earlier because it is your birthday after all, your friends told everyone that night. Lovemaking as cobblestone street. As hyena. The desert. Or perhaps just a blooming— in gardens, along the walls of a burned down building, deep inside the divinity you sometimes forget is yourself.