Dear LOVE,
Beneath this pale moon, where the skyline bleeds into smoke and shadow, I carve your name into the silence. The camp smells of gunpowder and rust, but when I close my eyes, it is your scent that finds me. The smoothness of your hair against my cheek as we once embraced each other in sheets—how long has it been since I last explored you? Only my lips! My cuts are numb with winter, but my skin still burns the same where your nails once etched your promises.
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Do you remember the night we became wild? Oh, dear, the air was thick as honey. You were a thunderstorm igniting the spark, and I, my dear, a barren plain longing for your downpour. Our bodies sheathed in sweat and whispers, each sound a rebellion against the silence. In that moment, I learned that war is not fought with rifles—it is the pulse of my hips meeting yours, a battle cry muffled against my throat. This uniform, darling, now clings to me, stiff with mud and memory, but I, like before, want to feel it stripped away by your hands.
Here, the weather is cold—a thief. It steals the color from the beautiful sky and the warmth from my bones. But they cannot eradicate the heat of you that runs in my blood—the way you moaned like a siren’s hymn, the way your teeth spread light when you smiled. I am a man split in two: one half grips a rifle, the other still feeling the silk of your thighs. Each day, missiles shake the men, yet it is your voice that trembles through me—an echo far away, yet so close, a murmur: “Come home, come home, my bunny!”
They say the front lines are retreating, that soon the lucky ones will enjoy feasting on human flesh. When I return, I will not kneel to pray to the Almighty—may He forgive me!—I will worship His “Creation.” Let the world crumble; we will rebuild it from the rubble of our clothes. I will map every scar this war has given me against your skin, and you will kiss them until they bloom not as wounds, but as proof—proof that we outlasted the frost.
Wait for me, my Radha, my love. Keep our bed blessed. When I cross this mess, I will not speak of the blood or the screaming quiet. I will press my forehead into your skin, then, like a good student, relearn the language of your body—cherish every sigh, every shake—until the past becomes present.
This war will end. And I will sink into you, a man starving for your light.
Yours, beyond what’s within reach,
Murphy
P.S. The locket rests against my chest. Inside, the curl of your hair is softer than a secret. I guard it fiercely. Some night, oh love, I swear it hums your heartbeat.
