Rose Petals in a Bowl:

My Love

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Have you ever been with a man who makes your heart leap for joy?

Have you ever been with a man who makes you shudder when your name escapes his lips?

Have you ever been with a man who quenches your every desire, yet at the same time, makes you thirst for more?

Have you ever been with a man who breathes life into you—gives you life? Gives you what life is worth living for?

As I gaze at the pretty gold band round my finger (which such a man crafted) the answer to all of these questions is: yes. Yes! How dost one help themselves from screaming this word from the rooftops when one is in such an amorous state, as I am…?

Each day I am engaged in the reminiscence of my auspicious fate—to be married to a man who fulfills all of a woman's aspirations.

Even now, while I cannot help but admire the delicate ring on my opposite hand, I vividly recall the devotion in his countenance as he slipped the circle of unity onto my finger; in a moment when we both were filled with apprehension against passion. Such a perfect fit. So beautiful. And there it has stayed, and will stay for eternity.

I promise him that with every rising sun, by a simple meeting of eyes; a smile; a touch. He knows me so—my thoughts, my gestures—now and again I feel so exposed, as if I am an open book, and he can peer down into my very soul. Because of this, however, I know I am forever safe and sound in his presence.

Nevertheless, I comprehend with a smirk, I know him too. I know by the certain gleam in his eyes what he is feeling; what he is thinking.

But it's his hands that I know best. I can tell, by just glimpsing at, and touching them, how arduously he toils to achieve his vision of happiness. And with such rough though gentle hands he guides me, shows me, and tells me how he loves me.

I secretly watch him in the morning, so I know his routine—how he runs his hand through his dark, curly locks before putting on his feather-topped hat (the hat which I adore); how he sits on the edge of the bed as he laces his boots, and finally, the way he leans casually against the doorpost as he bids me farewell. I walk him to the door, and, out of habit, we hold hands, my fingers entwining so comfortably and perfectly into his. And then we kiss—a gentle pressing together of lips that expresses fondness and reassurance.

I busy myself with errands while he is away, but I am always home before him, and I await his return, eager to hear the sound of his voice as I set the table and to feel his touch as he takes me in his arms.

It cannot be expressed to its full value in words the feeling which overcomes the spirit as we embrace. Our bodies fit like a glove; match together like pieces of a puzzle. It is the feeling of completeness which compels me to want to remain in his arms. It is his caresses that soothe me and moreover, stir my senses.

Worse still, however, is his voice that utters soft whisperings in my ears. With an inward sigh, I reflect on how well I know this part of him as well. A voice overflowing with sensuality, excitement, sincerity, and drollery. No other sound such as the beckoning sound of my name—Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth...—could be so sweet coming from deep inside of him; woven with meaning and urgency. It comes even sweeter because he says it so often—it brings him pleasure to let my name float off his tongue, and brings me satisfied relief (I remember how often he would formally address me, muttering, in an unconfident manner, "Miss Swann" and how I was driven positively mad…)

I wonder how he feels as I call out to him, my voice soft and impassioned. I crave for him to realize how it makes me feel when I speak his name. I say it to myself at this moment, and blanket of warmth surrounds my body. Will. I can't help but say it again as I spill forth these intimate thoughts of my best friend, my husband, my lover.

With quill to parchment, I could let my hand flow freely; my personal sentiments leaking out onto page after page…I could write a novel expressing how blissful we are, our little family, but that would reveal far too much. What I further care to divulge, I shall divulge to William. And I must conclude this memoir, as I blow out the nearby candle, for I hear the door close, and the clunking of boots, and my heart is by now soaring as I prepare to meet my love.

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