You asked me out on an adventure today. We drove 16 miles east of my front porch step, 9 miles south of the local gas station, and 27 miles north to the most reserved and quiet beach we could find. You quickly jumped out of the car and ripped off your t shirt, then yelled and asked if I was coming or not. I slowly and reluctantly stepped out of the passenger seat. You were about 11 feet ahead of me as you joyfully snuck down the path towards the water. When you reached the tidal shore, I stopped in my tracks. It was so blue and scenic and full of calm relation to the earth, just like your eyes. You slipped your body into the dancing of the waves, and the water kissed the shore and left and came back, just like you do to me one day a week. The beach is still and so am I. Even though I have yet to reach the waters, I feel like I’m consumed by its ravenous power. Its power to kill, its power to save. I’m drowning in the oceans of your pupils, and you’re enjoying the surf, and describing the color.