Suggested by and quoting selected words and phrases from “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot.

Some soft October night after we’ve wandered as far as you’ll allow yourself to be walked
past sawdust restaurants, where straw arguments are dipped in tar and left
to adorn gardens designed to resemble ancient ruins,
we finish dancing around each other’s point.

We never window shop without overhearing some tedious argument or another,
but for a hundred indecisions, we agree it’s not worth​
telling each other what drugs we took before we predicted
their hundred visions and revisions.

Nothing shouts disturb the universe like disagreeing which one of your visions
has heavier implications for all the voices dying with a dying fall
and then, which one of us will admit that limping at dusk through narrow streets
is just circular logic?

Which one of us said we couldn’t relate to the songs of our peers because
we doubted those artists will sing to me?
Sure, you’ll still sing Nat King Cole in your best crooner’s voice,
but your morning shouts will wake us before we drown.