Consciously Irrational

The facts are in, though they've never been out.

The facts that came in can suit only doubt.

The fact that you're still green, and I am nearly ripe,

The fact that you aren't, and won't be, and couldn't be my type,

The fact that I'm a swelling oval, and you're parallel lines,

They give me little pause, just enough to say “it's fine.”

The fact that I can't bear what you believe,

The fact that you'd prefer I leave,

The fact that you're a completely different breed,

They cool my mind, but not my need.