A guy wrote something. I wrote something in response. Then someone said I didn’t get him. I didn’t care and I wrote another response.
Let’s have it in slow motion now. The first blow is archaic, but there’s still some hope. Things get hopeless, though, as the second one sounds gloomily deranged. And then the last one, outrightly depressive, convinces me to show her (the friend) some beauty and some truth (my favourites) by getting all that shit together and putting it into cosmic context (she likes stars). This gives me a perfect opportunity to mix a few humanistic (all too-well-known) concepts in a somewhat refreshed way (she likes to read me). Well, the rest is foreseeable. The poem starts with a star dying, so my piece ends with a man acutely aware of his own end in obvious favour of the latter solely to my boastfully invocatory assumption sustained in her (now: anyone else’s) mind by the constant esthetic arousal (the beauty) she receives while moving unevitably towards the end of the verse. But hold on. Along it, she nods speechlessly to every truism (now read: truth) she would otherwise shrug. Why’s so? Because she’s captivated. Now, watch out, something interesting will happen (do I talk too much?). Plunked by the last word which in itself isn’t pleasant at all, her neurons do the rest. The preceding emotive-cognitive oscillations have created somehow (well, not somehow, she payed attention) a tension - the pun suprised myself - which at the end explodes (yeah, like a dying star) in her mind giving her an esthetic experience of intensity in direct proportion to her world-weariness and in inverse proportion to her knowledge of poetry. Am I crazy? Yes. Did I score? No. She’s getting married in some two weeks and it seems that … (a deep breath in, close your eyes) … the man will not touch another human being with his hands (breathe out, open your eyes and, check your pockets by the way). Even.
If you are here, the title works. How about the rest?