To my honey, B.
Just yesterday morn, I watched and was drawn as you were combing your hair and shining it with wax. What a peaceful time I spent with you as I had my cup of tea. You compliment my morning tea time like a sonnet’s rhyme especially when I’m ill you soothe my sick throat much better than pills so that I may soon recover and recite my poems to you, my dear, with a voice that is calm and clear.
I watched from my window of you in your garden moving with grace without a footprint or trace in the grass. How gentle you must be! You dance so carefreely that it puts me in awe and disbelief so intense that I could’ve sworn that you left the ground and flew.
When you were through, you started your day of work that you so earnestly do. You feed all your kin, and you win the bread not needing a man, but still, you have said that I was your only need.
I understand you have a family to feed and are sometimes too busy, too busy for me. But someday soon, you promised me you’d tell me about your past and ancestry. I want to hear tales from your earlier days. I want to know if you were as wild as they say. I met you domesticated, and now you remain a simple love, a love that is tame. A fickle flame contained in a lamp that would never be extinguished or be unwieldy again.
You’ve always been gentle as we knew each other and grew together. Our love was new and intense but loving you was so immensely easy. You were kind on the eyes but still kept a sharp tongue that carried a bit of a sting. I was cautious with my mouth as not to provoke such words that would bring out that sword you drew when you’d tactfully hurt with the truth.
As a child, I feared a woman like you. My mother had warned me to avoid your kind too. But I’ve never been shy to stare in the eye a challenging woman to find beauty inside. And beauty I found! I needed around such a woman, one woman who would remain true. Not true to me but herself. Indeed, I admire that quality in you.
I didn’t heed my mother’s pleading and moaning. I’m weak for your two-toned hair; that blonde and the raven black, I’ve become so fond and dress my face under the haven of each tress.
You’ve had many lovers, but I don’t mind. If you appear to be faithful and I seem to be blind, I’d instead look elsewhere and cover my eyes. For the sake of my heart, I’d think it kind not to mention a heart-wrenching truth, but fiction you can make.
Before I go I must say, I long for the day when you shall become my beloved, betrothed, my beautiful bride, pure bliss that will be and remain that way until we pass away leaving the other broken beyond building again; a beginning as pure, the bereaved wouldn’t have bore the fruits of our labourious dance that we danced around for years forlorn. Until the grave, I will love you and continue the love from that day it was born.
Doting on you tenderly, my dearest, darling, honey B. Until my next letter, sincerely,
Stephen J. Dawson Jr.