Letters To Russia

My Dearest Alexeyevna

     There is a coldness I cannot shake. A coldness down to the very marrow of my bones.  A coldness in my bed.  A coldness in my study.  A coldness that, in my sleep, visits me in my dreams. That coldness is the absence of you. These days have been long indeed and to find anything to occupy my idol thoughts, I am hard pressed. It all comes back to you.
When you are not with me I am sullen. Confined to a life in which the senses are muted.  I find no interest in the happenings around me.  No joy in the consort of my fellow man.  Man, in which I once marveled in his every achievement.  Now all moot.  My only consolation is that this insurmountable distance between us serves only our best interests.  My rational mind holds dear to that logic but the impulsive part of me, the mighty steed that the rational jockey can only hope to bridle, seizes all control and my thoughts return to you.  The thoughts of a young child who longs to feel his bare feet sway in the wind, cradled in the arms of his mother.  I want to spend my Autumn with you. Tangled up in blankets. Taking meals in bed. becoming familiar with each other's stench. But none of this will happen but only in my own mind.
You are my country. You are my university.  You are my crops. You are my kingdom; and it is dutifully that I serve you.  You are my all. And until I have you in my arms again I will be a man broken.  Defeated and uninspired. My life. My love. My Alexeyevna.  If I occupy half as many of your waking thoughts as you mine then I pity you.  For then any hope of being any use in any capacity is lost.
I hope this finds you well, my dear.  I too hope to be well soon.

    - Sincerely,