In a line drawn, elusive to most, I was a surprise to her, when I crossed it:
We, given to tryst, the corner-art—we, the please, we ask so little of love—
The sticky path taken, was more than theoretical, for us,
We, still, can’t help but fall hard from theater seats, as
We: carved of the most beautiful of silhouettes;
We: cupped blooms of red in hands out-spread;
We, the crème of the calla, give on to what must come after,
In heartsick lungs, abandoning chest, drunk on cigarillos, and
Sweat under lines, scratched to backs, the bed-art—we, the please,
We asked so little of love, even then.
Is that philosophical enough?
To fall in with?
Maybe for Ayn Rand, it is.