Dear Wayne,
It's been a while since my last letter. The daily phone calls to you have kept me going, and I'm still drawing on the memory of your visit a few days ago. I think about you all day, except when I worry about the kids.
"It's okay," you'd said back in our bedroom, as if your pain and anger had vanished, gone for good. I can't help but wonder if I could have forgiven you like you had forgiven me. When I had realised that it had been a mistake to plead guilty, you were there for me, the next day, as if I had never made you feel abandoned or rejected. It made me realise how much I love all the things about you that make you you: patience, calmness, your ability to forgive – all the things I could not possibly ever have.
I loved it when you'd started kissing me, out of the blue, adamant that you didn't want to talk about it. You had far better things in mind. I can't really blame you – it had been so long since the last time. Rediscovering you was like getting an early Christmas present, but far more exhilarating.
I remember the feeling of your hands on me, the warmth of your touch, the softness of your skin against mine, and my heart starts to ache from the longing inside me. It feels like when I was a child and I was homesick, a pain in my chest so bad that I feared it would take over my entire body until it burst, only this is a hundred times worse.
I want to lean over to you until my lips touch your ear, to tell you that I love you, a whisper so faint no one but you can hear.