He said he was "cursed with poetry at a young age," like me, and so developed "unrealistic expectations" of love and romance.

But he is alive, and the words that molded his mind--our minds--were written by the flesh and heart, like mine.

And so I was called to poetry. I am able to love like them, like him. It cannot be unrealistic. What a terrible grave to dig for the intensity in which we love, we poets.

Are we, all of us, doomed to wander alone in the isolation of time periods and memories past? To live breathing in the air of mystery, never having fully loved or been loved? To carry a heart ever ablaze that intensifies the fire of the soul? Oh, separation is death.

Our fire is too much to bear alone, and so we are consumed by it--detaching from all, suffering fleeting infatuations throughout the ages.