I send this on the wind. Every word left unspoken yet felt with every syllable. I send it there, along the green mountains, past their rocky, rainy peaks. There, across that ivory shore, beyond that golden horizon, and hope it will reach to where it should be.
In time, but less that hour glass. Less the sun rolling around, less the moon and seasons, and every turn of the leaves.
I write these words, so if spoken by her, they recite my love. Not in this life but the next, for this one is as it is, whether it should be or not. That memory may grow cold, as much as her hand in mine, but I have nothing else but that flicker of days past. Those fleeting moments spent laughing and smiling, and much more.
I send this letter into that next life, for mine is in such shambles. A tear, a sigh, and not a dollar to put to my night’s meal. I have but these words to give her, for they contain all my worth.
For I am without that smile, without that laugh until that life comes by once more.