Venice

She sits on her bed knees drawn head resting on top. The rain pours down outside plinging against the glass windows. Next to her lies a half-folded letter. His precise penmanship marred by the ink tears that dot the page intermittently. She slowly blinks and stares out to space, lost. He wrote about the beauty of the city, how the setting sun bounced off the spires and gold of the Piazza. He talked about the ever present melancholy yet his unbound happiness at finally seeing la Serenissima. He spoke of returning to her. No mention of crashing planes.