Dearest,

It seems the front is more dangerous in these waning days of spring and talks of peace were premature; I know yet not when I'll return

I long for moments under the two-trunk oak near farmer's bend where we spent many an afternoon.
And I'm embarrassed to say that I've thought of having taken your dress up above your waist on more than one occasion to distract myself from mortar rounds and far away cries in the darkness

Tomorrow it seems we are going to see the worst of it, at least that's what I've heard, though rumors, like ghosts, dance among the battlefields so I can't be certain

Dearest, I've loved you since you were eight years old, wearing your sister's shoes two sizes bigger than you feet could fill and freckles from cheek to cheek and I love you ever more still each day

I've not heard from you in so very long, the silence is nearly unbearable, though the mail has been unpredictable and I fight to stay positive.  I pray these words reach your eyes  with haste and this kiss your lips without.

Ever yours,