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He keeps drawing orange blossoms. I do not know why, but they are the only flower he will tolerate.
He requested they be planted in the gardens, then named his sonnet after them upon their blooming.
It is quite a sad melody, yet he smiles at the bouquets of them upon our table. He hardly eats the fruit from his beloved trees; he claims the taste is too strong on his tongue.
He did not draw before our union, and l would be proud of my ability to inspire him if he drew anything but his flowers. His palettes have never seen the colour of my eyes, my hair nor my skin, only the colours of the blossoms that he knows more than I.
I doubt I will ever understand many things about my husband, however his strange obsession with that flower is the primary curiosity that vexes me.