When I think back to that time we sat in the porch chairs diagonal from each other in front of the fire, I think of the little things that constructed the memory: Fire & Smoke. The sound of the neighbors in their backyard. Pirate Booty. (“I don’t love food more than you I just can’t stop eating.”) The smell of incense. (Trying to convince ourselves that it had faded.) The stars. The trade off when you pointed to the words and I smiled and said “Just keep reading. (The misplaced curvature of my lips is perplexing to this day.) The feel of the blanket in my lap, as I did everything I could to not look at you while you were scrolling down my phone screen. The silence. And then the greater silence. Your eyes when they met mine the second you finished reading. The touch of your hands when they laced into mine; calloused yet soft.  I remember the fear that crept into my mind like a burglar on all fours. It robbed the possibility of good thoughts. I had never sat by anyone when they read something I wrote before. Especially something this vulnerable. (At least without me reading what they wrote at the same time.) I was so afraid of what your reaction would be. Of course, there are no right or wrong reactions. But the unknown made my heart beat a little quicker. I remember how quickly I forgot that worry: you set the phone down on the table to your right (my left), got out of your chair (careful not to upset the silence), turned your head so that our eyes locked, and then in one swift motion came over and wrapped your arms around me. Thank you for reminding of all the reasons I should not leave this place.   Has anyone ever told you that you have the deepest eyes this world has ever known? People could dive in the pools of your irises and still not reach the bottom by nightfall.  Your eyes hold the infinities of the world in it, my angel. And it wasn’t until they looked into mine that I understood the depths. I cannot live without eyes to see the story in yours. If I became blind, hearing your honey-sweet voice tell me that I am loved would not suffice.   We both have seen the world through lenses that have filtered the way things have fallen into our optic abyss. We have seen through the lenses of strain, bereavement, hope, apprehension, curiosity, and… …most of all: passion. Never have I met eyes deeper than yours.   So, here I am to make a toast. "To the Universe. For placing my wounded hands in your calloused ones as the expanses of our visionary pools swam in each other for a small infinity." This will not be the last of my thank yous to the Universe for you, my dear, for I could not live another day if I were stripped the freedom of loving you.