There's nothing that fills me with contentment than looking in your blue eyes, so much like cerulean, crystalline gems, like the reflection of the sky on the Mediterranean, with the delicate touch of a granite tombstone. The way your hands touch me is like a drug. The way I suffer when they aren't grasping at me, grappling me. The way your love is unlike anything I've ever felt in a quarter of a century. It's strong and willful, passionate and consuming. It's the love of lives lived over and over again, the esoteric knowledge of perpetual lovers through infinite time. It's the love that nature has for her charges, the love that deserts have for thunderstorms, the love that is a wildfire overtaking the brush. It's tangible and thick, hanging languorous and soft in the air between us like drifting smoke stacks in an ***** den. Our hearts, beating in a tandem fervor, so unique and potent, so unlikely and rare. Until the first night I realized that your heart was the mirror image of my own, I was piteously alone. Floating, meandering through the motions of life. Alone and lonely in all the most beautiful places which would have doubled in beauty if they had been graced with your presence. And now that I've found you, I want to devour your mind, to wind through you like the intricate alleyways of the medinas of Fez. To sweep through you in black lace and supple silk like the crawling lovers of Paris. I want your full, plump heart close to mine at all times.