The Poet and the Musician were having a discussion.
They agreed the thing should have a theme.
“Love?” said the poet, “That’s what we’ll call it.
“Oh no, much too presumptuous, I say it’s more like a business relationship.”
“Do you think?” The poet winked.
“Definitely, it would never work as love.”
“So why does it feel like it then?”
“It’s all in the mind, my dear.” the musician added.
“You could put it to music.” The poet suggested.
“I shall.” The musician concurred.
He played, she swooned.
“It’s is a little like love.” The poet urged.
“Love is an illusion. A song is only a song.”
“But the musician is bearing his soul. Surely that is love?”
“It is self indulgence, for what else is art?”
“Perhaps you’re right.” The poet started to waver.
“All art is confessional.”
“But it’s open to interpretation.” The poet pleaded.
“You are a hopeless romantic, my poetic friend.”
“And you, my fine musical fellow, are a hopeless cynic.”
“Perhaps. So how shall we solve it?”
“You could lay your wit aside and admit it’s love.”
“Define love.” The musician said.
“The way I feel about you.” The poet confessed.
“Now you’re being delusional.”
“And you, dear muse and being intolerable. This is the last line I shall write about you.”
And with that she got up, changed the record and turned the page.