Decade

A year ago today, I kissed you, Sam. I don't know if you heard it in my voice, but when you put your hand on the doorknob, I panicked. "Wait! We need to talk." I just said the first thing that I could think of so that you wouldn't walk out of that room.

It was the best decision I'd ever made. 

You came back. We talked. "Let's try this," I said and put my lips on yours. That was the best decision I'd ever made. 

Since then, we've both made good and poor decisions (an understatement, I know), but we've had our decade to make them, and I'm grateful. I may not express it well, but you are the love of my life, and you always will be. My heart still leaps up. You still make my knees weak. We still generate the heat of a trillion suns. I hope for other decades, each expanding and contracting in my memory like this one has.

A moment: You catch the key I throw from the balcony. Ten million moments: I watch you laugh, your beautiful crinkles at the corners of your eyes. A moment: I say "my love" to you the first time, still afraid to say "I love you." Ten billion moments: you take my breath as easily as you take my hand.

I love you, Sam. A million trillion love units.