I haven’t written you sooner, you know why. I’ve missed you too much. You know that I exhaust myself in the briefest letter to the most casual acquaintance, so how could I have brought myself to write you when the memory of your departure, of your kind face and your hesitant goodbye, was still so freshly imprinted on my nervous system?
I have not yet made peace with you living so far away now. I probably never will, but I don’t blame you for a second; you’ve made the right decision, and I’m proud of you.
I hope that the mornings still have your feet swinging cheerfully from the bed to the floor. You always were eager to start each day anew, while the traces of yesterday could never quite leave me.
In writing and silence,