Christopher Bang,
Barrennjoey Road,
Sydney,
Australia.
March 20, 1960
Dear Christopher,
I indefatigably resisted the continuation of these letters. I desired to achieve a minimum of one week without writing to my deceased lover. But damn it, I was a wreck; a chicken failing to follow its dreams of remaining in the air for a long period.
Lamentable, I am aware. And I must admit that I am still in love with the backstory of my agony. I still cherish the sting in my heart in the moments where I ponder on your positive attributes. I still paint the silhouette of your smile, as well as replay the tape of your voice in my mind, Christopher. I miss the way that your hand used to brush against mine, despite the fact that mutual emotions were far from manifestation.
I have failed at the task of retracting all of my love from you, because I rationally suppose that a band cannot return to its original size, whether or not the valuable gem is no longer present. It would still be expected to have adequate room and the proportional curves and carvings to welcome the precious stone; welcome you, back in.
My heart still stands as that of a flummoxed maiden, bleeding from the impact of your own detaching itself from the paper mache pairing that had been groomed. But it still beats in one direction, naively awaiting the company and comfort of the heart of a dead man.
I deeply regret the original decision to begin writing letters to you. Because thus far, it has only worsened my emotional state.
And to date, there has yet to be a mention of your funeral. This has left me with no other option but to conclude that you have been cremated, as it seems to be a more realistic diversion from the rumors that your body was never even found at sea.
And if the first is truly the case, I do not blame them, for I would not prefer that your admirable body wastes to rot six feet beneath. I would rather appreciate centering your ashes on the drawer, which would in turn remind all who walk in that outwardly beautiful people like you existed.
I continuously recite vows to myself that I shall never cry over you, Christopher Bang. But I fail to keep them more and more each day.
I hope that you had a pleasant few days in heaven or hell... And I pray that the subtlest thought of me crosses your mind as you sit in heaven or hell.
Sincerely,
A.