My Dearest Lydia... the Last Letter From a Dying Soldier.
My Dearest Lydia,
I miss what we had, though I've had what I miss, I've had to miss what we had, since war took me away. No pencil can write darkly enough to match my mood without you, the lead is in me now anyway, and a pen will have to do. I have uncapped the only way I can reach you, a cold hollow tube, with a reservoir of blackest ink, leaked slowly like tears upon these blank sheets far smaller then we used to share. I once believed that ten teams of wild horses could never pull me away from you, but even wilder men have succeeded. Thousands of miles separate our lips from pressing passion like fine wine, into intoxicating bliss. Your picture is bloodstained and creased, but buttoned up tightly in my fatigues, it carried me through many ungodly images of mayhem. I want you to know only sweetness, your love like a perfumed scarf, kept the stench of death from becoming unendurable here. Your letters have been my voice of sanity amidst cries of agony. I only wish that I could bring you the kind of peace they claim we are dying for, but this will be my last bulletin to you, because there is a bullet in me. It was a hollow point, and always will be, but it imploded amidst my intestines, and I am dying of septicemia. I love you more then breath itself, and so in your honor, and for the glory of our homeland, I will soon give it up. Remember me in the wee hours of the mourn, when you are a housewife, with cuddly babies dreaming in cradles, and a lucky son of a non gun bearing man, snoozing next to you. Think fondly of what could have been, without regret, for I was meant to be part of the sacrifice that love requires men to make. I will dance with death, and pretend it is you, as we waltz into the darkness or the light. I am growing tired now, allow me to dream of you, of your gentle touch, come to me there when you are sad and world weary, and I will wait for you. Our dreams live on in the sighs of those more fortunate, the box awaits me, where bones will dream amidst the dust of sleep beyond all waking. I take your memories with me, my most precious possession, keep mine in a small corner of your soul, and perhaps we can scrapbook them together in heaven someday. Farewell my lovely Lydia, I must close my eyes now as well as this letter. I love you, beyond all that ever was, or will be, there is nothing more to say, but that even as remains, I will remain............ Forever yours,
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III