Words of Love by DearDiary
(I’m floating…I’m floating in the air like a hot air balloon and there is no chance of landing. You, my love, are to blame. And you are the only person who keeps me tethered to the ground). I could barely sleep at all even though I spent half the night dancing. My body was exhausted, my eyes were closed, but my mind was awake with the sweet memories of our secret meeting in the gardens. You’re such a fox, you are, tricking my mother like that, telling her that Donna wanted to discuss the chapel decorations for our wedding! Poor Donna! You should have seen her face! She was not amused by your antics at all, although my mother is suddenly delighted by the prospect of having the strawberry meringue cake at my wedding.
(My shy beloved…) How blue your eyes were that night, (my dear) John. The coldest blue that turns the brightest, warmest shade when you lay your eyes on me. (I swear to everything that I deem holy that I almost lost my mind when you kissed me. I nearly lost myself in your icy eyes and to your heated lips.) I’ve never considered hand-holding as something sacred, intimate, as something utterly romantic, but holding your hands felt like the most exciting experience of my life at that moment. The most exciting moment is the day you offered me to be your bride! (Me! Your bride! Rose Tyler, John Smith's betrothed!)
I cannot stop replaying our kiss in my thoughts. Oh, that kiss... (I’d love to lie and say that a kiss from you was the first I’ve ever received but I love you too much to mislead you like that. Still, the less you know, the better. Lord knows you get all jealous and sulky when there’s someone trying to get my attention. You’re the one to talk! Lady Cassandra has been trying to slay our love ever since she learnt about our engagement, that ancient lipstick-painted hag! Don’t think I haven’t noticed how uncomfortable you are when she’s around.) It was like suddenly the wings grew on my back, and if it weren’t for your hands placed on my waist, I’d have flown away into the starry skies of London. You are a wonderful kisser, John (even though I wonder when and with whom you acquired the kissing skill). You are a very considerate (lover) (partner) man, (and you held me like I was made of porcelain, and I felt so cherished), and I appreciate it to no end (Shareen told me that her kissing experience was awful at its best, and I was half afraid it would be the same for us because she told me that men only think of themselves. But of course, of course it’s not like that with you. You’re a special man, John. And I’m clueless as to why you chose me to be your beloved.)
Anyway…What did you think of my dress? I think it is entirely too pink. I looked like a wedding cake! I had to fight my mother for not putting a wreath of roses on my head. I draw a line at…at…gaudy. (Yes, I believe that’s the word). You, (my love) John, looked (positively edible) dashing in your black suit. I know that you dislike playing dress up (much to my chagrin because I adore it) but it suits you so well. Never think for a moment that I don’t like your casual attire (those beige breeches of yours…yum! Oh, Lord, my mind is like scattered marbles these days, and you’re to blame, my melancholic love).
It’s 7 a.m, John, and I ought to try and catch some sleep (I know I won’t sleep a wink but I’m scared of scaring you away with my inane scribbling). Mother will have me hanged if I don’t look fresh as a rose (Ugh! I hate that saying!) and all lady-like for tea with the Wyatts in the afternoon. Lynda is not a bad girl, really, but she gets on my nerves by talking about planning parties, arranging sitting places and flower compositions…and it’s too much. I start thinking about the blue-sailed ship when things get suffocatingly boring.
I promise to dream about you (my blue-eyed Northerner).
Dreaming about you this night,
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