a soliloque to no one.

January 17th, 1945

To:


I miss you. Even as I sit upon this fallen tree trunk doused with a fresh dusting of dry snow and dutifully apply ink to paper, I cannot conjure words big enough nor expansive enough that would even begin to alight upon the sturdy foundation of my love for you. I have been writing you for four years from beneath green burlap canvas sacks pitched and played as tents, and I have yet to read words so infathomably deep and injustifying of love as the ones I attempt to splay upon this pock-marked, damp page. My left big toe is gone. Frostbite took it in November... or maybe it was the surgeon who took it. Either way, the left toe that once was caressed by the soft, satin touch of the rolling blade of your forefinger is no more. As the days turn into weeks turn into months turn into years and still not a letter of reply or acknowledgement arrives from your ledger, I am beginning to feel like that toe also. The callouses that have built up on my exterior over the years are being nullified by the frigid chill that is the unknown. I haven't shaved in three days, nor have I brushed my teeth in weeks. I can't wait until this chasm of war is done for, and I can return back to you at your estate on the River Thames, and make the sweetest, most passionate, closest form of love to you that I can, for all the rest of eternity.

I dream of a warmer future in your arms and in your bed.


From: 1ST ENSIGN H. DUNNMORE. 23RD B.F.E. 15:34