Because No-one Reads These Stupid Things Anyway...

...I may as well write what I damn well please.

I am now utterly convinced that I love you. I'm not even sure why. You're not rich, you don't even resemble 'my usual type' and you are certainly not the gentleman you led me to believe you were. Maybe that's just it. Maybe I don't want to love an illusion. Maybe I want to love something real, and imperfect.

You are so imperfect my dearest knight, and amazing to the point that my blood boils every time I see you. I no longer want just to be your elfin healer, for my magick runs far deeper than in just my hands, and far stronger than you know.

I suppose I am meant to have 'curbed my enthusiasm', as it were, but I have unwittingly and unwillingly fallen harder and faster than imaginable. Maybe I should leave my little elf brains splattered on the wall, for you to remember me by. I doubt you'll manage to get a sensible sentence out of me again for a while.

I had a dream last night, of you and I. We were at a ball, and there was dancing. Turns out you clean up rather well, but then even I managed to look like a lady for the evening. You were wearing a suit, and I a blue satin dress... the colour of the sky at night. I wore diamond earrings, and I stood watching them glinting in your eyes, which had chosen to be more brown than green on that particular occasion. I don't know what this dream represents, if anything, but it was nice all the same.

There is more for me to say. Much more. But you will never lay your eyes upon this, and I am not emotionally equipped to tell you face to face.

I'm just waiting for you to love me, I suppose.