Ironically, this post has no name.

Calling someone by name gets their attention, lets them know you are speaking to them. Calling me by name mid-conversation, mid-sentence, even, is like a well-placed hand. It gets me every time. If I’m yours to be gotten.

You do it sometimes when you know my mind is racing. It runs ahead; you bring it back. Without a break in the rhythm of your sentence, without distraction from the task at hand, you guide me back to here. To now. Much like I imagine your hand would.

I never liked my name as a child, fell into apathy as an adolescent. But years breed informality; old friends play the name game with ease. Today I find myself answering to diminuitives and nonsense names, as if the years had gone in reverse from the moment I entered college. They've softened me up for you.

You creep toward comfort, playing with my name, inviting me to play with yours. I find myself wondering what names we will decide upon, and when our hands might speak instead.