My Dearest Gretchen,
I am without the desire for sleep at this such late an hour. I have counted the clock’s announcements for so many cycles that I speculate as to if I shall see the sunrise through our window.
The night’s moments, fashioned from minutes of none but exceedingly regarded admiration of your very once presence, are weighing themselves upon me as a blanket of clay. Considering surroundings provides no solace, but acts rather in unsettling aide memoire: the bedside table remains as it was, undisturbed, save for an occasional lifting of simple objects for the purpose of dusting underneath. A brush, three hairpins, a glass, and a dish containing two pairs of earrings and a button are repositioned neatly, accurately.
I ponder frequently upon the button in fact! I must admit that I am at a loss for its purpose. Indeed, our common areas and common possessions suggest a purpose; however, the small button – a dark red button – brings neither recollection nor function to mind when taken into consideration. Yet, it shall remain.
Horse hoofs pound the roadway; a draft gently whistles through the opened window; and, moisture from a section of timber cracks in the fireplace.
I’m smitten, alas, by every lingering lovely essence you afforded from eyes now gone.
Affectionately yours,
C. Lawrence Webb
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