This love, earthly love, is a truce between metamorphs,
a temporary agreement not to shape-shift while kissing or holding hands.
Love is a beach towel spread over shifting sands.
Love is intimate democracy, a compact that insists on renewals,
and you can be voted out over night, however big your majority.
It’s fragile, precarious, and it’s all we can get without selling our
souls to one party or the other. It’s what we can have while remaining free.
All treaties can be broken, all promises end up as lies.
Sign nothing, make no promises. Make a provisional reconciliation,
a fragile peace. If you are lucky it might last five days; or fifty years.