Manfriend has been called away on business at the last minute for the next few days. And the truth is, I yearn for him. I yearn, and burn for him tremendously.
A few days ago, he gifted me an old vial of the deepest, darkest blood-red ink and a fountain pen to go along with it. And I sat there, filled with joy, as I got myself acquainted with my new antiquated toy.
I have delayed writing to him my thoughts, not because they are not coming to me, but rather, because I am so particular about penmanship and calligraphy.
Every stroke, of every line, needs to be perfect so that every emotion can be beautifully preserved on paper.
That, and I am slightly strange enough to think that our curious little children will find our aged letters in the musty old attic someday, and I'd like for them to at least be able to make out most of my words to their father.
Trust me. Love will make you daydream about these sort of farfetched things...
