Darling, I wish I could call you that. I never would because it would sound so strange falling from my lips, I'd get the accent wrong and it never would be so magical.
Brown skin, you know I love your brown skin. It's so true. If we're together and I'm bored, watching a play or something ludicrous, I always look at your hands. I like to imagine slipping my arm under yours and stroking your fingers. You've got delicate hands really; they're big, but they're so clean. You're so clean, and your fingers are long and tapered. Your nails are perfect.
You were ill this week. If you wanted me to I would feed you gherkins and hot water and orange juice. I'd wait till you coughed and hold your head against my chest, and stroke your hair to soothe your headache. I'd smooth down the tops of your eyelids as you slept and kiss your forehead whilst I traced your perfect lips.
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