I don't know where you are, my love, but I pray this letter reaches you soon. I am sending it to your last reported address, but if you have vacated, then I only hope this message will follow you.
When are you to return? You promised me it would only be a week, a fortnight at most, yet a month has passed and you have not come. I have not dared quit my chambers since your absence; instead I wait beside the window, staring down at the doorstep. The first time you came to me there was moonlight in your eyes, and every evening after I would wait with bated breath for the twelve chimes that once promised your arrival. Those chimes ring hollow now, and rattle my frail bones. I can hardly bear the ticking of that clock.
In the more present days I wake without wanting, and am tormented when I find that it is still daylight. Longing draws me to the window and I peak behind the curtain, filled with the hope that I might see you pass by. The sun seems bigger than it was before, and I would not be surprised if I drew back those curtains one day to find that it had swallowed the whole sky. It glares through the window that sun, and I, like a bug beneath a scope, fear I may smoke from the exposure. Yet, I still take my seat by the window, eyes dancing about the street corners, my skin ready to scorch, because I am anxiously awaiting your return. You are coming back, aren't you? You would not quit me, would you? My love, my life source; you would not dare?
The nights, they are better, but still they are filled with melancholy. The darkness is my friend; it brings back memories of you; but I fear it too is turning against me. I used to be calmed by the thought of the coming evening, but now it sets me on edge, because now the moon creeps away from me, and is so often concealed by cloud or caged by a twisted net of blackened branches. That bright orb shrinks away from me, I know it does, and soon I fear I will be left with only the black, for even the stars have begun to fade away. Sometimes I wish I could pluck the moon from the sky and keep it in a jar by my bedside, or perhaps on a chain about my neck. It would bring me much comfort if I could see it always; if the moon was always with me then maybe you would be too. Where are you? It scares me that you have been so silent- I wonder if you are safe. I hope that you are. I thirst for you, and you alone, my love; I am parched. Here I wait, licking dry lips and planting kisses upon the cold glass. I do not know how much longer I can stay in this house; I do not know how much longer I can last.
Promise not to leave me here.
With the warmest hopes and affections,