Stretching Sorrow

The passionate man dumbfounds me. That sweeping, untethered, tune-blown type of a Romeo or Werther is astounding. I feel their magnificent presence wash over me, like "here I stand" in wet concrete, quite tethered, blown nowhere, in awe, like the first time I saw an airplane fly. Astounded, mouth agape in a "How..." shape, unable to even complete the question. These types, they soar, they dance like clouds, now stormy, now wispy, untouchable, their misty souls elude all solid forms, understanding them is like grasping fog in a fist, the tighter a mind squeezes the less there is to hold. Why am I so different?