Love is complex, though it can be held together by a simple web, direct lines of communication, thinner than silk, where the slightest touch signals, informs, instructs. It’s taken over forty years to refine this love. Not those fine factory grains that fools spoon into their tea – I now know what ‘honey’ really means. It sticks to the lid, to your finger tips, it drips gold upon your lips. ‘Honey’, your soft skin, I know every pore, which makes me think of sex once more.