Dear Ess,
I've been trying to cross the border for ten days now, and it looks like I'm not going to be able to call the head guard by his first name anymore. That first-name thing, it's sometimes a one way street, isn't it? You were telling me that, once.
Everybody here is starting to get antsy, they keep saying any day, any day, but I've been thinking about heading back the way I came. Maybe I could leave through the straits down south, but I came so far to get here and I might find the same thing the other way. And I've still got this trunk. I can't think of anything that's in it that I need. There's an old woman and her son here that I think I'll give it to. They have so much stuff. She's so good-natured.
I miss you so much right now I can't even eat. I want to spend all day in market smelling the soap. I keep trying to remember that song you sang to me–something about someone needing someone to hold on to them, something about frost on the window glass. But I can't be sure if that was in the song or if that was you and me. I wish I knew. I don't know why I only think to ask you things in these letter, where it's so much harder for you to tell me anything.
Word is they'll be moving more people thorough in the next few days, but I've heard that word before. Can't say that I'll see you before Valentine's Day, but I'm trying, Ess, I'm trying.
Your lovin' confidante,
Jimmy