I read something, a reference to Echo and Narcissus.
And I knew I was supposed to know that, so I looked it up,
and the poem came out of it.
"The Marriage of Echo and Narcissus."
He is having sex, earnestly, trying to learn how.
She is making love, lovingly, believing
she's in love because incapable of duplicity.
He won't speak except to ask, who are you?
She can only echo, like a child, who are you?
As long as he doesn't answer, he doesn't know.
And as long as she pines for the one who isn't there,
they'll stay like this forever.
Because we put them there, to work through the paradigm,
trying to get it right.