This letter is written in grand, flowering hand, the seal marked with lip prints.
Dear Prickly Bear
You've been away too long, my love. The cold sheets betray you.
You are a scamp, are you not, slipping from my chambers before the cock crowed and denying my desire its due? I should have known better than to give you the key to my cottage. We can agree that it opened far more than my front door, and that the squeak of the lock won't be fleeing these ears any time soon. My bedposts left quite a scar on the plaster, to be sure. I view them as trophies, I do.
And here you are far from me, so far in fact that I can't feel the scraggly daggers of your beard against my neck, or hear the purr of your breath as it escapes your perfect lips. Yes, I could find one to fill your many spaces, but alas, none can. Your name is the only scream I wish to utter in these vast, dark Rathir nights.
Does your fluffed and rigid master know of your sweetness, of the nights spent serenading me from my window on Wending, or the poems composed beneath the bough of Star Thistle deep in Twilight Garden? My guess is that he does not! You are but a hired blade to him. It is a pity, my love, for your are not a weapon but the very salve that cradles the wound of my loneliness. Every time I ache, I cry your name.
Hurry home, Prickly bear. My sheets grow cold, and my bedposts miss their clatter.