What do we do, now, my mate?
After so many seasons of drought and defying
Challenges to our pride, we've come this far:
Love is in our grasp, but invalid and dying.

Trap-doors lie open: tempting and enticing us;
And-though they're not concealed, as before-
Your clouded eyes are lifeless, dull, and cold:
I don't understand who you are, anymore.

In the morning, you kiss and caress my face,
Stroking me, gently, with your seductive hand;
By noon, you're transformed into an anointed monarch,
And the forces of Hell bow before your commands.

Am I condemned to love one man, until dawn,
But serve a stranger throughout the day?
Surrendering to my love's intoxicating kisses,
Then watching the same man maim and slay?

I don't need Madeline's report to know our love's on life support;
We don't have to torture ourselves about Section's nefarious part
In setting us against each other, keeping us divided and weak:
We are the ones who will come together or tear ourselves apart.

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