To K, From D

I'm trying this thing where I write fictional letters instead of stories. Yup.

K,

   Your necklace is hanging from my lamp still. I've though about mailing it, but I can't bring myself to part with your last fragment. Aside from the cold silver, all I have left are lucid memories and the ghosts of passion.
   Each night I lean across my pillows to stroke your golden hair, but there's nothing there besides bundled cloth. Cold, lonely, cotton sheets that crave your tired limbs, that ache to caress your face while the sunlight pours through the window.
            I miss kissing you awake.
   It's been how long now? Too long--it's always too long. Three weeks, it's been. Three weeks and six hours, with just a few minutes. You'll always be a fresh memory, though your scent has been swept away by gusts of wind, and your touch whisked away by the ticking of clocks.
   If you want your necklace back, please come pick it up. I'll stay up for days just to hear your knock on the door. I'd lose every memory I possess to be in your presence once more. Maybe, perhaps, this time you'll stay.

             -D