"And sometimes I feel like I am wasting my youth on an absent man, who in my retellings day after day in my hallowed mind, become a far greater man than he is. And on such short periods he descends onto the muddied ground I walk upon, he remains thus, a figure carved out of ivory.

"He tells me not to worry, but he might (will so my blackest keenings say,) stray onto the primrose path of dalliance should he meet someone else.

"'Selfish child, what of him?' whispers a quiet but wise voice.

"And I answer with this, 'The truth is, he is a man and they are better off. They are not empty vessels to be filled with love, but the pitcher that pours the love.'

"And another voice replies, 'In doing so, they empty themselves. And they will need replenishing, for love and trust is reciprocal.'

"'Where does it all go in the end when love runs out?'

"And no one answers. Because no one can say what the future holds.

"I cherish him. But will that enough?

"Perhaps."