The Masks We Wear

My Dearest J,

We had met under false identities. You remember? I had chosen a common name to wear as a mask, if for a tiny moment to hide my real self as if I were ashamed of the woman I had become. I had chosen the name Ashley, in my opinion, because it had always had such a pretty ring to it. It had always reminded me of a dying fire, one where the embers cascade up into the night sky desperately trying to find it's way back home, back to it's mother fire.
What I found so oddly wonderful was the fact that you had done the same silly thing. You had chosen the name Don, and after a little time passed and we had revealed our real identities to one another, you would sometimes, in such a humorous fashion, would sign your letters "Don". 
Time would pass unbearably slow when I waited to receive a letter from you. I remember checking the mailbox every day only to see your beautiful handwriting flowing across a beloved envelope. I could not open them quickly enough. Your letters, even in my own safe world, were something forbidden and I could not run back to the house, lock the bathroom door, and slide to the floor fast enough. My mind would shut down, not thinking of a single thing except to read the words you have addressed only to me. How that made me feel! How lucky was I to receive each wondrous word from my true love. No girl had ever been so lucky. Forgive me, for I am having trouble finding the words in which to describe that feeling. It was as if each word was a gift, a gift from across the universe which you had traveled so far to capture for only me. I cherished each one as if it were the last word I would ever read. 
I will admit, after well over a year now I still check my mailbox. Every day the emptiness of that dreaded box continues to haunt me and sometimes I wonder if it all ever really happened. Normally, these days people move on and will do anything to sweep under the rug whatever has hurt them in the past. I am afraid I am incapable of this, my love. I have prayed to the heavens to take this pain away, the pain of not seeing you, not hearing you, not knowing you any longer. I have prayed to have my memory wiped clean of all thoughts of you so I may go about my remaining days in blissful ignorance. Yet, for some reason, I cannot let you go. Some may call this madness and I do not blame them, for sometimes I, myself, believe I have gone mad. Yet many great people in our history have understood that romance and madness share a very, very thin line. And it is I who feel sorry for the ones who are blind to see that. 

Sincerely,
Hopeless