“The great thing about symbolism – the symbolism you create – is that no one can stop you from remaking its meanings,” he realised.

“And the grandest thing about the poetry of love which you obviously practice is that when rejection total totally hits home, the rhymes and words and verbs and sounds immediately can describe another,” she replied.

“You’re right!” he exclaimed, suddenly busy and excited.  “I’m suddenly free of the weight of past loves, even as the truth of such life remains honest and sincere; remains a real grounded foundation to build on.”

“And it’s here,” she pointed out, not a little self-interested, “that maybe I can help.”

“Wow!” he then said.  ” Do you think that might be?”

“Wow!” she replied.  “Why not?”

“Hey!” he responded, as emotional as ever.  “So who do you know who might fit?”

And it was then she understood the unkindness of Cupid’s furrowing labour: those brows of quite unmet hows.  Where glances and looks and glistening lips belied her desires and her shooks and her tooks, it was clear – at least for now – that he was entirely oblivious of the truly felt passion he raised in her soul.

And she wondered, more generally, even as her pain was quite particular, how on earth the human species had ever survived these unhappy misunderstandings, half-truths, and white lies: moments which clearly had served to plague its long history.

So when would any good heart ever find another to be properly true to?

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