She loves that love which knows no love
but's something of a film you rent
(and watch to swear you saw before)
wherein, two cast, meet cute, slam door,
as plot requires, quickly leave,
rejoin at last, as must, deceive
romanticists addicted to
that merry close where credits soar
above a soundtrack enamored
with honeyed strings, piano soft
abandoned in daydreams aloft
where fictive love performs as well
as candy, coffee, carousel,
to glaze or goad or spin a spell.

He loves that love which hates itself
like mocking mirrors richly poised
in living rooms where poorness swells
and desperate decor drowns out knells
of daft devotions dashed to dust
as tender trappings, soon disgust,
benumb dumb eyes with novelties
now ponderous with properties
imploring all belongs in trash
as solitude begins to bash
its head against the papered wall
(replete with roses gathered not)
so loss becomes a vague recall
when passions prove they're all for naught.

In truth, these two might match up well
should they concede each heaven's hell:
once former seeks beneath ideals
and latter learns to share ordeals
- lest true minds let impediments
imperil love to decadence.