My dearest Shabani,
I know it has been many months since my last letter. Please know that you are my first thought upon waking and my last upon bedding down at camp each night. Between this damned war and your being locked up in a Japanese zoo, I don’t know when I’ll get to gaze upon your strangely appealing face again. I pray you’re remaining true to me even in light of your new widespread attention from those of the fairer sex.
It’s clear to me that I am not the only one eager for your affection, but who are these women flocking to your cage? Which of their body parts do they press against the glass in a bid for your simian attention? What hole is in their hearts that they seek to fill by admiring your gorilla arms, face, and figure? It is surely nothing compared to the hole left in mine by your absence.
Have you found someone to groom your coat as well as I can with my spindly fingers? Do they actually enjoy eating your mites, or are they faking it? I never faked it with you.
I have a very specific image of you in my head. Can I tell you about it? It’s you, grabbing a pole all seductive-like; it lands somewhere between “sassy stripper” and “deleted scene from a nature doc.” That image keeps me slogging through this hellfire when all I want to do is give up.
War is hell, but I know our enduring love will see me through.
I remain yours. Do you remain mine?