ONE. We meet.
A while later, we start talking.
Later still, we discover that the term "soul-mates" doesn't just apply to the romantically inclined.

TWO. She discovers how extensive the vocabulary of a poet really is
and how easily I can make her melt into the palm of my hand with a simple Limerick
and the emphasis of my Irish accent.
TWO. She has a soft spot for linguistics.

THREE. I dive into the depths of her intelligence
and swim for miles and miles until my arms and legs give out,
so I lie there floating, surrounded by her knowledge and the way she views the world.
THREE. She can satisfy the appetite of my sapiosexual side
with just one conversation.
One fathomless, substantial, wonderful, endless conversation.

FOUR. We go into bookstores together and don't come out until we're threatened
to be arrested by security
after having already purchased seven different books. Each.

FIVE. We spend nights at her house where she introduces me to her movie collection.
I introduce her to Broadway movie-musicals.
FIVE. We spend nights at her house.
FIVE. Her house feels like home.

SIX. We travel together.
We backpack through Europe together.
I take her to Ireland and introduce her to my family.

SEVEN. We weekly "adventure" from evening until dawn, driving and talking
with either that school-girl coy attitude or the feeling of the deep life thoughts you have in the shower
until we find something interesting or we run out of gas or one of us falls asleep.
SEVEN. She lets me drive her car.

EIGHT. I write a poem for her birthday.
She kisses me on the cheek.
I can smell the beer on her breath.

NINE. We move in together.
NINE. She gets a boyfriend, I get a girlfriend.
NINE. We're both single.
NINE. We're getting married to different people.
We're each other's best man at our weddings.

TEN. Our partners have died, so we're alone together again.
TEN. I hold her hand as I help her get ready for bed
while the male Hospice nurse fetches her medication.
TEN. She still feels like home.