The clouds heavily coated the sky like a grim warning to those who wait for their unspoken loved ones. It was lonely, this time, the rain dripped as if the world was mourning over fallen soldiers. But I kept my spirits up, I listened to the to the word of mouth, seeing in words what was traveling through the air. Which men have now died in the trenches and which men have come home with written letters in their pockets and a grim expression of fallen men in their eyes. I always wished upon the latter, every night when I shut my eyes I wish that the grave war would end, and he would come home. But I fret upon what he will actually be like. How much he would truly change in this ever dragging war. Sometimes the latter would be a silent death to many who return home, home to a warm meal and to loved ones. But will he ever truly forget the blood that spilled over his hands and the stabbing sound of the tips of blades? This is what I ponder every night when I write down my very thoughts on paper, keeping them mildly cheery for him, even though I know the response will take weeks, if not months, and even then I can hear the despair in his voice through his written words. The following letter could be one from him, speaking about how soon he'll be home. How much he aches for my company at night, or it could be a letter telling me that he's just another fallen soldier in this endless brutality.

I put down the pen I started to write with and walk to the closet, it's filled with suits and the aroma of the perfume he would wear around himself. I remember the smell that would waft off of him in the early evenings. The smell of cigars, cinnamon and whiskey. I smile at this thought, as the thick wool of his coat touches the palm of my hand. I can feel my throat tense in sadness as I try to fend off the imprisoned sobs. My eyes are drowning before I can even attempt to regain my thick composure. I fall to my knees, my skirt brushes the thick hard oak floors, and I sob. At first it's mild, no sound escapes my lips, but soon I can't help it upon myself, I can't bear it any longer. The tears stream down my skin, they end and return, and it doesn't help. He's not returning to me and I can't help think it to myself. That I'm ever awaiting another stricken man. I look at the band across my finger and I know that waiting is all I can do. Finally lift myself off the ground, my legs shake in resistance and my mind wanders me to the bed, an empty ache fills my midsection but I don't stop. I strip off my thick, wool jacket and skirt. I slip off my shoes and fall into my bed. The warmth surrounds me as I fall into heavy slumber. Forgetting that my face is stained with salty tears. Forgetting about the ever engaging war. Forgetting that it ever came to be. And I dream. I just dream.