In the shadowed hours, he hungers-not for love, but for the pulse of life,
A ceaseless craving, both curse and grace,
Aromantic yet aflame, he drifts through midnight whispers,
Each touch a symphony, each desire a tempest,
Bound to flesh, yet estranged from hearts,
He tastes the world in fleeting warmth,
A paradox of longing: never given, always taken. ENTJ-