all things must pass » the beatles, queen and the backstreet boys

4- John Lennon

Holding his hand was possibly the most pleasing and satisfying thing to do.

It didn't seem like much; didn't seem like the spare time activity a world-famous singer that wrecked havoc around the world would do, but what John decided we'd do this morning was very simply to check up on our garden.

Outsiders might look in and think of us as two nutjobs destroying mother nature, but I can speak for the both of us when I say that we genuinely enjoy grooming our quaint little piece of heaven into perfection.

At the very moment, we simply walked along the very edges of our property, hands wrapped around each other, the feel of my engagement ring against his familiar skin being a not-so-familiar feeling that I already fell in love with, just as quickly as I'd fallen in love with the quintessentially beautiful man strolling beside me.

With a lovesick glance, I'm sure, I cocked my head to the side just a little, to admire his face a little bit more.

Every single line and curve, starting from his dainty nose and pretty almond eyes that shone golden in the gleam of the morning sun, to his sweet mouth that curved upwards in the loveliest smile I'd ever seen, and the finely structured angles of his face.

In short, he was a rather gorgeous man, and nothing delighted me more than to know we were only few a steps away from spending an eternity together.

The hand that was clutching mine suddenly let go, and I watched him crouch down near a flower pot that we'd oddly placed a week or two ago.

"The hyacinths have grown nicely," he grinned up at me, "Can we take this up to our bedroom and put it on the windowsill?"

"They'd look nice after we re-painted the room, and make it look a lot fresher," I agreed, at which he picked the pot out of the ground and placed it beside him.

Sitting down cross-legged beside him, I didn't mind the damp grass against my trousers, as much as I felt slightly intimidated by the intensity of his stare that seemed to trace every inch of me.

"You'll have to clean the pot up with the garden hose though, I don't want mud after I'd just cleaned the house," I wagged my finger at him sternly, causing his cheeky smile to grow bigger, pecking my lips quickly to shut me up in a way that was still quite lovely, leaving me just as flustered as he aimed for.

Then, just as quickly as his eyes filled with mirth, that emotion dissipated to reveal another far more vulnerable one.

John picked up a small pink daisy, one amongst a bush we'd been growing for quite a few weeks, snipped it off, and dusted any dirt off hastily. With a small touch of my cheek, he balanced my face in his palm and tucked the flower in my hair, the very same soft look in his honey eyes growing warmer as he did so.

Blush creeping on my face, I didn't quite know what to say; I was well aware that the man before me didn't fare too well with expressing emotions to others, but when we were in the relaxed atmosphere of our home, I saw doors open in his beautiful soul that I never fathomed possible to see.

"There," he softly smiled, "Now you're the prettiest flower in the garden."

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