Sonnet 116

I’ll always feel this way. Love can’t be love which alters where it alteration finds: my driver, she – no matter how she grinds my gears. I’d hardly term it, hand-and-glove: it’s much more like a scrimmage, push-and-shove. Relationships there are, of many kinds: but whether pigs-with-lipstick, Golden Hinds, one party is below, and one above: one partner is the hawk, and one the dove. If she’s the cheese, I am the humble rinds. No matter where this crazy freeway winds, there’s one thing that I’m always certain of: a meeting (or collision?) of the minds: a bedroom where we never draw the blinds.