One can have exceptions I presume. A weakness for some inordinate person or the other. A kind of love afterall. Although? Much too fanciful. Illusory and selfish more than it's professed selfless nature. A phantasm of the muse. An apparition adorned with ideals of beauty forged for the beloved by the lover.
I should know. I have been lost & found in such smoky terrain again and again. A trick of the heart played on the intellect. Because even in moments of absolute faithfulness for the said precious, the admirer fails to be coherent in terms of what they are willing to upend.
In the end, only an ideal image remains. The phantasm is then complete. Wholly unattainable in its bewitching, illusory realm.
It's 3 am. One can get drunk from fatigue. Ignore me. I have not been in love in the traditional sense of the word. I write only what I recognise. Still, I have too much propensity for the fanciful.