The leaf has fallen from the vine;

Cold winds blow. You are no longer mine.

But, in truth, all that exists is the fact of ourselves;

The other one is just an idea,

Who we are—our desires—is the only thing that’s real;

The other is just an idea.

True, we can only love ourselves in someone else;

An idea is how we love, how we lift above our corrupt desire

And find the light, and see things, beyond our fire.

But loving ourselves—through another—is not to know the other;

We love ourselves through them, but don’t know them;

We clasp ourselves; and though the other is what we hold,

We hold ourselves, no matter how bold

We peer into the other’s eye.

This is why love is lonely, and lovers, when most in love, cry.

To love you made me understand: there is only I

Loving, and knowing, some idea of you—

Which I still love! I know myself! I’ve come through!

I know the truth! Though you are gone, fair idea! I’m still loving you.

The leaf has fallen from the vine.

But fill my glass, again, with wine.

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