This Honey Coloured Hunny

A way with words that wows people.

You cause us frustration because of your pure perfection.

Your touch is wonderfully soft, like the feel of bedsheets that have been warmed by a lovers body.

Your voice touches everyone like warm summer rain and the smell of coffee by the ocean.

The words you write send shivers through entire bodies, like standing on Oxford Street in your warmest coat and listening to  the hustle and bustle of London life, like home.

You write like honey to the lips. It’s sweet and drips so perfectly. Sticks to me in ways you couldn’t imagine.

I watch you exist from afar, the view of your life is quite nice.

I don’t remember the first time I saw you, or the first time I was introduced to you, or the first time I spoke to you. I do remember watching you grow up on camp along with the rest of your crew; you all seemed to be the elites, unreachable for me. I remember when your hair was short and I remember watching the hilarious skits you and your friends managed to come up with, from the lion king reenactment to the raw pumpkin eating.

And I remember wishing someone like me could be friends with someone like you.

Thank you for granting me the pleasure of being your friend.

I knew you as Mowgli long before I knew you as Ben, so calling you Ben seems like more of a privilege to me than calling you Mowgs. So, Ben, here are your colours.

The music you listen to is pink. It inspired me to get back into writing and I listen to it when it’s raining. It reminds me that the rain and cold won’t last forever, and I’ll get through this winter just like I got through the last.

Your laugh is all shades of green. From the soft chuckles to the full blown howling when you find my sarcasm amusing. You’re the first person to compliment my sarcasm rather than be annoyed or insulted by it.

Your name is red. Deep, blood red. And hearing those three little letters reminds me of my little red boots from when I was nine years old. Your name reminds me of childhood and brings happiness.

But you, as a whole, are not pink, not green, and not red. I see you wearing your colour in your hair, at the ends and the roots and all in between. Yellow. Like the summer sun and spring daisies. The colour of friendship. I see it shine when you let your hair down and watch it intensify as you pull your hair back. It shows in every friendship I have seen you in and every other thing I see you do. You’re a golden child.

Thank you for your yellow friendship and the way it plays a part in shaping the way I treat everyone around me.

The ocean, a surf board, and tan fingers softly lay on the surface of the salt water. A school of tiny fish darting around beneath the surfer as he gazes out to the horizon. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath of the ocean air. He looks at home here. Content. He has left his troubles back with his towel on the sand. He has only love in his heart and his hands are fit to hold child royalty. He smiles lightly as he feels the morning sun on his cheeks; and thanks the man Himself for everything he has been blessed with.

I hope you know how much you are loved and appreciated.

~ Zee xx

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