Well, the difference is simple if you think about it.
If all of the ghosts of the women I have tasted and touched but never loved made a single-file line at my door, the impious parade would wrap ‘round my block.
Oh, invincible, immortal ingenue, you have no ghost!
Your noble knuckles will never take a turn, rapping at my gate. By the by, I’ll be sleeping with spectres
or suckling new souls into invisible incandescence.
My heart is an empty nest.
