30 reasons why - Roger Taylor

-REASON TWENTY SEVEN-

 July 3rd, 1979.

Dear Rosie,

I know I am way too old to be writing love letters, but the last time I did was what? Eight months ago?

I have had all the time in the world to get some paper and a pen and write you a letter but I DIDN'T.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the times we've spent arguing. I'm sorry for being an asshole boyfriend who comes home drunk when he knows that his girlfriend specifically and firmly told him not to. I'm sorry for making you wait.

But I'm here now. I'm giving you every single second, every millisecond of my time before tour starts to you.

Ružica, you don't have to wait anymore.

Because I'm here. Baby, I'm here.

It's four in the morning right now, and you are gorgeously sleeping in bed. Your arms are sprawled out around the mattress looking for my shirtless chest to lay your head upon, while I am here in the kitchen with a bowl of dry cereal off to side and remind me in the morning that I need to run to the store and get some milk.

I couldn't sleep. I was too busy savouring the moment of your head resting upon my chest and your quiet snores that came with it. Your legs were tangled with mine, and you just looked so beautiful.

It reminded me of when we had sex for the first time on the first concert in Berlin in 1972. I don't know why, out of all the days in the calendar, it had to be that day.

But we were in your apartment back in Berlin, my hands were all over your body. Your ass, your gorgeous face and your lips before I cursed out loud and dove in for a kiss. And you...you made me think because never in the twenty-four years I had lived by then had I seen such a girl with eyes that could fucking challenge the Greek gods.

You were afraid of me seeing your naked body, I thought I did something wrong. But you didn't want me to see the scars on your thighs and legs, and your stomach which you said "carried excess fat". You were scared that I would fall out of love with your flaws when it turned out that I actually loved them. Every scar, every mark on your skin I loved the same way I love you.

I remember staring at you and burying my face in the crook of your neck, leaving kisses down your skin. My thumb grazed over your cheek only so slightly, and I knew I was hooked onto you.

From the very start, I was so very attached to you, Rosie.

I also remember the day we ~officially~ made our relationship public—it was one Saturday 1974 after a concert. You were working as a photographer in your second year, and I was being interviewed by reporters where one asked me about my performance that day. Lucky for me, I just so happened to spot you walking along the sidelines and I tugged on the back of your shirt.

"Here's the commentator herself," I said, and you looked like you wanted to slit my throat. "Ljubav, come here. Say some stuff to the—"

"No."

You put up quite a fight with me (not really, you just crossed your arms and frowned), but I pulled you over to me and wrapped my arm around your waist. As I pressed a kiss to your forehead, the amount of reporters automatically increased, and you started to look more and more anxious.

"You were out there in the concert yourself today—how do you think I did?"

"Well, ah," you turned to face them, "I think you did pretty well today. There was a great atmosphere, especially when you did your drum solo and accidentally lost a drumstick quickly grabbing another one, everyone loved that"