Her Henceforth she will known only as Her, Who brought about such feverish persistence Much like a rusted-over spur, Resulting in questions of existence. Days and nights filled with thoughts about Her Personality, humor, or was it her smile? An essence, a pleasant odor? Or plain self-denial? Perhaps this she did not equal Her Not even real? Yes, I concur, Some sort of abstract ideal. So once again we arrive at the start, Indeed, Why waste your heart On an impossible need?