My Melancholy, My Marystella

Must it be that the merciless machinations of mileage and months conspire to mire me in melancholy? Must the maddening monotony of mornings, the muted murmur of midnights, and the mercurial march of moments make me more miserable with every measure of missing you? Must the miles, like malevolent marionettes, manipulate my mind, making my memories a mirage, my musings mere echoes of moments now miles removed?

My Marystella, my muse, my midnight moonbeam—must I move through this maelstrom of melancholy, this maze of muted murmurs, without the melody of your mirth, without the mirroring of your most magnificent gaze? The map mocks me, marking the miles between us, making a mockery of my most maddening wish—to move once more into your midst, to melt into your embrace, to make meaning of my meandering days.

Might it be that memory is my only mercy? That in the marrow of my mind, the murmurs of your voice, the movement of your touch, the momentous magic of your presence remain immutable? Might it be that though the months move on, my heart remains magnetized, my soul moored to yours, my longing more monstrous with every minute missing you?

Mark me, my Marystella—I do not merely miss you, I mourn you in your absence. I measure my moments by the march toward meeting you again, marking the milestones of my misery until the miles melt away. My love is not moved by distance, not muted by separation, not made lesser by time. It is a monolith, immutable and magnificent, a monument to you—my muse, my morning star, my most cherished melody.

And so, until the miles mean nothing and the moments bring you back, I move through the mist of missing you, murmuring your name like a mantra, a message to the universe:

You. Always you. My Marystella.