I remember meeting you in sixth grade. Your Notre Dame sweatshirt hung off your small frame like the sheet I pinned over my dorm room window to block out the early morning sun. At thirteen, you passed me a note in English class, check yes or no. While my face flushed and my check mark took on the appearance of an ancient Chinese character, Mr. Keller took control of my daydream: read it or eat it. The paper smacked between my molars. I sat in the middle of that small classroom with the military blue carpet, my saliva working overtime to disintegrate the evidence of our puppy love, my eyes only making contact with the redness of your skin. You kissed me when I was sixteen in the front seat of my green Ford Taurus. Your lips were the juiciest meat my teenage lips had ever touched. I suppressed carnal cravings to protect a friendship that meant more to me than late-night pick-up basketball games, more than state championships, more than those pink Jordan XI’s you helped me pick out at the 16th Street Mall. So, our 20’s came. And, our 20’s went. Boy, did they went. A decade of sheer stranger-dom. Then, you called, as random as our mutual obsession with 90’s R&B music. And, we laughed, laughed so hard that I couldn’t breathe. With every strong inhale, you were helping me rebuild my broken soul. You kissed me when I was thirty-one on the top of a mountain. The snow beneath our feet magnified the weakness of my knees, and I was home.