Write about romance, Kara says, and I agree. Expressions of love are singular cliches at the best of times; how might a little conformity harm matters of the heart? Perhaps there lies the core of my ambivalence towards the day to day occupation of love; once all the moonlit charm and glamour has faded away in the washed light of the sun, can anyone truly claim to be enthralled? The soft looks and accidental touches of the hand give way into quick smiles and kisses, and passion slows to affection, romance dims to thoughtfulness. While it is all charm to leave a single red rose in the hands of a love, the notion of a husband bringing his wife a dozen of them is simply repulsive.

But to lay the prosy reality aside, there is a greater fear I hold of love. The sickening idea of becoming someone's possession; for even a willing possession relinquishes claim to her heart. How could I pour out the gleaming vignettes of every second of my life, breathe voice into my quietest, most carefully hidden thoughts? To allow someone to take the secret part of me into themselves, to fold their beliefs over it, to colour my words with their opinions-- hyperbole aside, this is rape of the soul.

To meet on an equal ground-- to seize passion, and come to rotate in equal spheres. . . this must be possible. There must be at least one heart that will seek entrance to mine. Seek to cherish, to understand, to hold. . . and barring that, surely 'poetry is the art of making love-- without the fuss!'