Here I go, nicking titles from Ian McEwan again. This has been stewing in my head for the past few days. A strong T, verging on an M.

For you. For the way your eyes widened slightly in surprise, in warmth too, I think, as I whispered the question to you. I watched your face from above, in portrait, as I whispered that we'd wasted long enough, and that I wanted to marry you with as little delay as possible. You said nothing at first, but I felt your hand tighten in mine. Saw the lone tear trickle down your cheek, cold from the bitter air. For the way you finally turned and smiled at me, and said that you would.

For you. For the sight of you appearing at the back of the church, in a white blouse and a new grey skirt. No one to give you away, but I understand perfectly why you turned down his Lordship's offer to lend his arm for the day. If I'm honest it does not bother me too much, this breech of custom. I'd rather this than having to give you away myself to another man. I couldn't. The way you handed your flowers to Mrs Crawley, and shyly came to meet me. You looked small in the light colours, which oddly matched the dark of your hair so wonderfully, and I love you in that moment, for your beauty, for your shyness, more than I ever have done before.

For you. For you and the way your hand trembles slightly as you sign your name on the register next to mine, in your beautiful handwriting.

For you. For the way smile as you take my arm as we wave to our few wedding guests and step into the back of his Lordship's motor. You threw your flowers in that direction deliberately, don't think I didn't notice. Thank you. It meant the world to me that you let Lady Mary catch them. For the smile on your face as you catch my reaction.

For you. For your hand ever-present in mine on the journey to Scarborough, your head lulling down onto my shoulder with the gentle hum of the motor car. For the way you slap Branson on the shoulder in thanks for his trouble as he leaves us at the door of the boarding house. The way you insist on taking your own suitcase in. The glint of your ring on your finger.

For your face as you half-run happily down the sands of Scarborough Beach in the evening, the expanse of the sea wide before you, your hat abandoned, your skirt fluttering behind you in the breeze. The imprint of your dark coat, against the pale blue and grey of the world. The sight of you; bold, solid, free against the quiet landscape. I am happy to be near you.

For you. Every feeling I have is for you.

As you appear in your white nightgown, dark hair flowing over your shoulders. The soft smile you give me. The shyness, returned. The slender flow of your arms into delicate wrists. The hunching of your shoulders. I didn't marry you just for your beauty, but in moments like this its difficult to remember that. The sceptical look in your eyes as I voice a fraction of this. The feeling of your lips as I kiss you. I kiss you like I've always wanted to, finally.

For you. For the white, white flow of your skin on the bedsheets. Your night gown discarded. Three shades of white lying next to the splayed dark of your hair. Oh, your hair. Black lavender. The softness of you lying beside me. Your arms around my back, kissing me, letting me kiss you. I love you, I love you like I didn't know love could exist. For the delicacy of your shoulders, the flat of your collarbone, the roundness of your breast.

For the way your hands move over me, searching, discovering, succeeding.

For the curve of your hips, their sharp bones, their sharp movements as I touch you. Kiss you. Worship you.

For you lying beneath me, taking me, letting me take you. Letting me let go.

For you. Every last breath of it, for you.

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