The Counter-Argument in the Mirror

"We can't build on this."
She says as she traces the concrete
Her fingers sliding inside
The deep cracks spreading far.

"Our foundation is broken."
She says as she stands there
And looks at him and shakes her head
And then she says,

"Help, I think I'm in love
With a descriptive grammarian
While I know I can never
Abandon my prescriptive roots."

And I say to her, "You're right
Of course this is more important
Than love and happiness and art.
Juliet, hold firm to your Capulets."

"Our foundation is shaky."
She says as she wraps her ams around
Herself hugging away the cold
And says of him again,

"Help I think I'm in love
With a liberal loving socialist
Who thinks it's okay to laugh
At things like capitalism and competition."

And I answer her, "You're right
In fact I think I've heard him whisper
Communistic whispers in darkest night.
Time to start building your wall, Berlin."

"Our foundation is cracked."
She says as she turns to think
About maybe actually walking away
But pauses to say,

"Help, I think I'm in love
With a man who prefers Versaille to Oxford
And Paris over London
And the Neoclassical over the Victorian."

And I answer her, "You're right.
And the channel is too wide to swim
So let another hundred years war begin
Before you become the Countess of Calais."

But then she pauses and stops
And doesn't say anything and I can tell
She's thinking about all of my answers
And maybe within them sees my true meaning

"You think that it will be alright?"
She whispers and looks around
"Even with all these cracks
Spreading across the ground?"

"We are two people
Not two puzzle pieces
We are complex and intricate
And no one will ever be a perfect fit.

So what if my school of grammar
Or finances or society or art
Is not the same as your own
When has that ever meant a thing to love.

So do not fear the cracks
Because everything in the world is cracked
And as the great poet said
It's the cracks that let the light in."

Now I turn to myself standing arms crossed
Shaking my head in the mirror at myself.
"Help, I think I'm in love
With a prescriptive grammarian."

And my other self shakes my head and says,
"Don't make excuses about philosophy or art."
And I know I am right and have to speak the truth,
"Alright, fine. Help. I think I'm in love again."