His fingers tremble as he peels back the ancient flap of the envelope. Her words are emblazoned in his mind and he can read them with his eyes closed, but he needs to feel her. The letters are all he has left, the broken cursive of hand-written love she shipped straight to his heart.
Work sucked a bit of his soul away, and when he feels like screaming, he lets the strings soothe his anger. But playing leads to listening, and listening leads to reading her words and imagining her fingers brushing against his chest, hovering over the freckles she named like a constellation in the night sky. He wonders what stars she sees when she looks up, if she still creates her own star maps that only she can see.
He plays songs that send a flash flood of memories racing through his mind and he posts them for the world knowing he will regret it in the morning when his head isn’t cloudy with alcoholic thoughts. Melodies turn into his fingers fumbling over dry pages scratched with I love you’s and don’t forget me’s, and he drinks instead of crying because it’s pointless to remember when she is impossible to reach.