Dearest Martha,
Your toes are like two dainty flowers; pickable, yet easily pollinated. Your other eight toes are alright, but not dainty...more like eight drying flowers that once had life, but are now slowly dying; much like my soul and this relationship.
Remember our time in Paris? No woman ever washed my socks like you. I shall always recall our conversation about God at the local brasserie: you insisting that there is an Almighty who controls our morality and me undressing the waitress with my eyes. Oh, will we ever enjoy kasha varnishkes like that again?
Making love to you is the most joyous experience of my life. The way you just lie there reading Faust, never orgasming, makes masturbation seem like a grotesque misadventure.
When I dream, I see your lovely incandescent face and the blue limpid pools that are your eyes. Sure, those eyes are crying because I forgot to put the toilet seat down and you fell into the vicious swamp that is our toilet bowl, but that's OK: WE LOVE EACH OTHER!
Foreverly yours,
Matt.
Postscript: I woke up the next morning to Martha setting my hair on fire, cutting Swastikas into her arm while reading from the Bible. We broke up six months later when I found out her name wasn't really Martha and she murdered transients that she picked up by the side of the road. Ahh, true love!
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