A room is a square thing, of a cubic
Sort of shape. A confinement of various
Perspectives, a nest of stones and missives.
The heart however is a more porous
Matter. All that fluid fleshy gurgling
Of metronomic proportions aside.
Mine crossed the door to yours like a leading
Transatlantic romance of old. And we
Circled the square, ignorant as we were
Of geometric dogmas. I rounded
Up my hopes, but the equation couldn't
Cope. Love, you moved on to another square.