“And what of love?” The poet asks.

Let me tell you something about poets…

I will never love one again.

For they cannot embrace the flesh,

the blood–what can be held in the hand.

No, they always want more.

Just a little bit more than mere mortals can manage.

And more is never enough.

Ever chasing the dream…the ideal…the Big Love.

Well, you can keep yours, my dear.

Because it was never meant for me.

It was for you. All for you.

To admire your own reflection

in my eyes…

In love with the thrill

with the IDEA

of me

in love with you.