here’s the damnedest thing about “hopeless romantics”:
they’ll splinter their own bones into kindling to build the fire that warms you, as if putting a match to their insides might cauterize the wounds left behind by the greedy lovers and too-rough hands that set their hearts to bleeding in the first place
you see, the poets spared no pains when they dubbed the especially romantic “the hopeless”
they are hopelessly betrothed to the warfare, the burning insanity of a soul madly in love with love— the way the heart rages against the brain.