I know there are other fish in the sea but I don't want them

Kiped the title from flamingweasel's beautiful, if overly personal node. I hope he doesn't mind too much.
When you grow up, your heart dies; faces blend. They become pieces of crowds in coffee-table books (Where's Waldo? or Magic Eye; take your pick). In time, you see the faces more clearly; you decipher the puzzle. Some of the faces become important; they incite you to joy. And more joy, and inevitably, heartbreak, when you know for sure that the void cannot be filled.

Of course there are other fish in the sea. It would border on the ridiculous to say or think otherwise. But betwixt knowing and believing is a great gulf fixed. Of course I know there are other fish in the sea, but how can I believe it? It would be rifrickingdiculous.

After so long of thinking about her, writing about her, my every synapse firing in a pattern created by her, how can I even imagine thinking about considering starting to muse over the possibility of pursuing anyone else? She has defined my life. More than that, she has defined my universe.

I know it sounds trite, but every cliche was meant to describe her, somewhen in the deepest reaches of the past. I can't very well ignore such a history of lexicography and literature building up over millennia simply to describe her. She was simply the most —

OooOo! Now will ya look at her! She's a cutie! *whistles*