How you, how me (prose)

You saw me standing there. I had a cigarette in my mouth and a mess of poetry in my hair. A petite golden elegy, but mostly incomplete. And you thought I didn't notice the skin on your heart bore a patch. But I let you prattle about prose and constellations, anyway. You tried to impress me with your brain activity. And not surprisingly flourished mine with serendipitous abstractions. How you, how me. Now I'm in denial with a theory, and you love that I fell. That is your philosophy after all. Use her, taste heart, be an abounding fool. How silly of me to fall for anything less than verity. Now I understand why a woman can't just love a man.