We are all trapped in a spiritual isolation, solitary confinement. The nearest we get to sharing another person's nervous system is during sex when there is an electrical or nervous connection.
Love for another is love for our own empathy with them, for the image that we have created of them. The greatest disappointment of love comes when that image proves to be false - but how could it be anything else? We fashioned it to suit our selves. So what can we love except that which we have created by our selves, in our selves?
"You find as you are giving up the ghost
That those who loved you best despised you most."
Derek Walcott is the greatest living poet according to many authorities. He was awarded a Nobel Prize in 1992. A short biography is here:
The paintings are:
The Mirror, 1896, Sir Frank Dicksee
The Mirror, 1911, Frank Markham Skipworth
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.