"But love...of whom?" I say at last. "Of what? What great passion would forestall death?" Her graceful eyebrow arches, "You do not know? You, a poet?" I do not know. I say as much. She leans forward so that I can hear the rustle of her starched cotton blouse and silk beneath. Our faces are so close that I can feel the warmth from her skin. "Then you need more time to learn," she whispers, her voice as filled with emotion as when she cried out last night." --