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    Honeymoon Bliss

     

    Bette

    ’But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east and Juliet is the sun.’ It can never be that Shakespeare had the same view as me, when this line came to mind. For there can never be another her, in past, present or future – the sun at the centre of my universe.

    I’m grateful I’m not a painter, considering I would never be able to capture the gold in her blonde tresses on canvas, as the special light of the Provence peeks through the curtains. I’m lucky I’m not a poet for I could never describe the softness of her silky skin against mine. I’m thankful too, that I’ve never pursued a career in photography as there would never be the right angle to capture the shy blush gracing her cheek bones, as she lets out a small whimper through her velvety lips. But I am blessed to be me, for I am the only one that can take in all of her, just moments before she wakes up next to me. How I got so lucky, I will never know.

    It almost feels as if I have the ability to stop time, just by looking at her, her eyelashes caressing the delicate skin under her eyes. For me, she looks exactly the same as she did when we met, all those years ago. And ever since my soul has burned brighter.

    On the floor of the honeymoon suite are clothes that could be hers or mine, our suitcases still unpacked and an half empty bottle of Champagne on the nightstand. The bracing fragrance of the briny sea wanders in through the open doors and blends with the sweet smell of our love making on the sheets. There’s nothing quite like it really. Or actually there is; that smile that makes my heart leap with joy, when her eyes flutter open and my lips match the upward curve of hers in a gentle kiss. And then there is that feeling like heaven is calling when she mumbles. ’Mmm morning.’

    ’One could say noon. But one wouldn’t argue.’ I whisper and she chuckles while her hand gets lost in my hair as she deepens our kiss. A kiss that tastes like our first kiss but holds our legacy just the same, the essence of her and me. ’So, morning Mrs. Porter-Kennard.’

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