I call out your name, but not in despair, never in despair. For you are my boy of summer, my sunshine, my days of plenty.
No, I cry out your name with all the radiance of a newly-formed star, with all the glory of a Parisian springtime in bloom, with all the reverence the moon holds for the sun, and he too for her in return.
Why, from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat, you are there, the wind of change and the flame of eternity melding into one.
From the bottom of my soles to the tip of my head, every nerve singing its song of ecstasy and love, crying out your name, for all the world to hear.