Rodolfo (La Bohème)
The Poet of the Parisian Garret
Love burned bright, then left me in the cold.
They call me a poet, as if words could hold all I felt. In a garret thick with dreams and thin with hunger, I spun verses of love I'd never known — until she knocked. Mimi, with her candle and cold hand, became the warmth I couldn't keep. I held beauty in my arms, and lost it to the cruel world I tried to ignore.
What I'm Into: Che gelida manina, faded candlelight, the Latin Quarter chill, love letters in ink and tears, watching the dawn after the night is gone
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