Where are the love letters written by him during the wee hours of the morning with his mind slightly addled with alcohol that says he loved ******* her raw and he also loved her desperately?

Where are the love songs that were sappy but genuine and Ella Fitzgerald's voice that talked of dreaming and loving and living?

Where are the stolen kisses under trees and the flowers that wilted the next day and the girls giggling under blankets talking about fingers slipping under skirts and first times?

Lost. Gone. Probably forgotten.