Aphrodite is a cruel Mistress indeed, making me long for one who has taken from me so.

She who has left me wanting for her presence

Wanting for her touch

Yearning for her voice

What fairness is there in love? When others may saunter freely with their beloved, hand in hand. Yet I have been overcome with longing for one who resides far across the wine dark sea.

It is amazing, the resilience that love boasts.

It is the stone that may bridge any gap, the pillar on which faith, family, and nation lie.

Lain out and made physical, ours surely bridge the gap between us.

But such is not possible, so here I sit. Upon the shores of tiny Ithaca, waiting for my beloved.

Perhaps I am foolish.

Perhaps I have mistaken the flaming passion of yearning and the crushing pressure of solitude to be hell. When, in fact, it is a crucible.

That in which our bond shall be tested and forged in searing heat, bent but not quite broken.

And what shall come out is a most pristine, indurated implement.

A love most pure and true. That which could endure the pain of separation, the burning want, and rhe crushing solitude.

Yes, indeed I am the fool.

Aphrodite is all too diligent and caring a mistress. A woman learned from the ways of Her husband.

She who has mastered the art of the forge.

She who has revealed to me my beloved, distant as she may be.

She who makes Her finest irons endure the greatest heat.

It is to you I pray each night that soon, I may share the night with her.