You Young Wild Thing

Henry, My Dearest Love

(This is a letter written in the perspective of a world war soldier writing home.)

I have been placed on the frontlines, in the trenches, in the mud. This place is quite abysmal. In the grand scheme of things there is nothing to look forward too, not even the hope of coming home. That has long gone.

When I first arrived at this station a few weeks ago, the sun was bright and the sky was clear. The smell of rain wafted around me. Everything was peaceful. I had yet to learn the horrors of war. Where I had been placed before I didn't take part in much fighting, but here on the front lines, that's all we do. I've been placed as a sniper. I shoot from afar. I don't have the guts to tell the men that I hate it. I hate every minute of it. This isn't me. Henry, I don't want to fight like this. It's useless. There is no winning in violence like this. By the end the only thing born from this war will be the blood on our hands. I'll have to live with that, if I make it out that is.

Henry it's awfully cold out here. The rain pours and pours. It never seems to rest. I try to sleep and catch a few dreams of you but it's no use, the bombs and the smoke will keep any man up. Hope feels fleeting these days. At first I was full of it but now I suppose I'm in a drought of it. Only a few drops remain. I'm trying my love, I'm trying. I wish to come back to you more than anything but the men need me, the war is calling and I must stay. It would be foolish for me to wish you calm. To have the audacity to say—stay calm, everything will be ok—when nothing is right. But I will wish it on you anyway.

The bombs shake your core and the gun shots make hearing impossible. Everywhere you look there are bodies. The men I called my friends, my brothers. The men I fought with for weeks, months even. All lay in piles, blood oozing out from the bottom. Dead. Gone. I'm terrified. It's loud and it's hot and then it's freezing and everybody's gone or will be soon. Henry, my love, I'm sorry I haven't made it home yet. I'm sorry I didn't say I love you when I had the chance. That I was too scared. What's the point of fear now?

To being honest.

My dear Henry, before the war we spent countless hours in libraries canoodling our time away. Loving the feeling of each other's skin underneath our fingertips. Embracing one another under the stars, in the rain. Quietly we loved, but it was love nonetheless. It was always real, wasn't it? Everything we had was not a figment of imagination that we had just dreamt up. It wasn't best friends on a simple fishing trip or two boys on an innocent swim. There was more. There had always been more. We would snuggle at night by the warmth of the fire. Shivering and naked, basked by each other's skin. We loved each other every day, all day. In every way except paper we're husbands. I like to think maybe we always were.

As I sit here pelted by rain and hail. Cold and shivering, but this time without a fire or your soft, supple skin to keep me warm. I think of the life we had and I miss it. Henry I miss you. I'm sure you're not very surprised to hear this. You are much smarter than me, further aware too. I wouldn't be surprised if this is a revelation you came upon years ago. Back when we were just kids. To think for all of this time you were just waiting for me, for this moment. And through it all you remained so incredibly patient. Thank you, I mean that dearly. There isn't much good in this world, but Henry, you are the most marvelous thing to grace this planet. I don't know what I did to deserve you. I'm far from good. I'm a very complex, broken man. I don't go over my feelings like you do. I lie and I hide. It worked for many years.

However, as the bullets fly I can't help but realize there was never a reason to lie. I suppose people would scoff and disagree. They'd for sure stare daggers at us. Maybe even call us fags as we walk—hand in hand—down the street and through the city. I don't care though; I don't care at all. I have nothing left to lose. I should have done this years ago when I first met you. My brain is stubborn, only the threat of death could ever awaken such a realization as this. I love you. Henry, I love you more than anything this planet could ever offer me. I love you more than life itself.