Dear Janet,

I play. I never had the urge before. But a lifetime filled with nothing but time, it was the cello or self-reflection. The choice was a simple one.

I look in the mirror. Slate grey hair and a map of wrinkles. I recoil. It is not my time ravaged veneer that repulses me. It is my agony ravaged mind. I had wished to grow old and grey. But I wished to do so with you.

Ironic. It should be you growing old without me. It should not be like this. Every day reminds me of the pain. Every hour I remember your slight frame, hazel eyes, sweet smile. Every moment is a new and unyielding form of torture.

So I play. It should keep my mind from thoughts of you. But I picked an instrument you played as a child. I add to my own sick torture. My mind fills in the blanks that the simple passage of time cannot.

I am alone. I have been alone for so many years. I will die here. Alone.

I wish some days for it all to end. I have suffered torture at the hands of many an enemy, yet never before have I wished for the end so ferevently. This twisted torture, within my own mind. No means of escape.

The sound of your gentle laugh. Smell of your soft skin. Feel of your warm body. These memories are some of the few I can still cling to. Things leave me. My father's face is slipping further from my grasp every day. And yet I still hear your soft chiding as clear as if you stand beside me.

My dreams are vivid. Some real, some imagined.

I dreamt last night of our first kiss, on the porch of your house after I drove you home. I remember the awkwardness with which we moved towards each other. I smelt your sweet perfume on the evening breeze. Once more felt your soft, apprehensive lips on mine. Awoke flushed as I had been the night it happened all those years ago.

Some nights I dream you are here beside me. Just out of my grasp. I can hear your gentle, unlaboured breathing. Feel the warmth of you with me beneath the covers. But my eyes refuse to open. My body paralysed with fear that should I move the ghost of you will leave.

I cling to your memory, though it pains me. It is all I have left of you. It is all I have left.

My heart aches more than my bones, but I will hold on to it as tightly as I wish to hold you. It is all I need. Though it will not sustain me much longer.

Though years have passed the memory of you, like my love, has not dulled. I write this knowing you will never receive it. I write it knowing no one will ever read it. I simply wish to write this down. There is no other record of you being here with me.

I love you. I long for you. But I do not think I can hold on much longer. They say time heals all wounds. Yet my wound only becomes deeper with the passage of time.

I fear losing my memories of you more than anything, more than death itself. So stay with me. Lie beside me in my dreams. Help me to carry on. Continue this torture, for the pain of it is the only way I know I live. Let the ghost of your presence haunt me, for it keeps me breathing. In the agony I have found comfort.

So I play. I touch the heart of you. The sorrowful instrument reflects my mood. The agony of the strings beneath my bow mirrors my internal struggle.

I have always loved you. I will always love you.

Sam.