A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

Miscarriages of justice: I grow up
misunderstanding. Worse, I believe
the lies, the errors, propagating them
through no fault of my own.  I held
to an ideal of a 
soul mate,
sole mate, 
solely fated
romantic predestination 
as Raphael revealed to Tobias,
and all my sources - social, cultural,
spiritual and secular - conspired 
to paint a singular romance 
as the quintessential aim, 
that the sole design of interactions
with the other sex was to find that 
mate-of-my-soul and fall 
headlong into him, losing myself. 
Platonic love was marketed
as somehow lesser - I’m still unsure
if this stems from the lack 
of physicality disenchanting
hedonistic social norms, 
or lack of procreative potential 
disappointing old white men 
who seem to think they own our bodies
as though they were the Creator Himself - 
whatever the reason, we are taught 
that there is almost nothing worse
than being relegated, confined
to the zone of friendship.
I have learned experientially 
the truths of Plato and Aristotle,
that the mates destined to be intertwined
with my own soul offer the highest,
purest form of love: real,
honest, raw, friendship.