Love is a curious thing I suppose, for it turns perfections from one thing to another. The curly haired boy with porcelain skin and dirty knees and eyes like the sea that we sail on, becomes the boy with big gentle hands, and dark eyes and dark skin and a dark heart who always smells of cocoa.

Does that make love fickle, or all the more magical?

I would say magical, because the world is constantly in flux, and so we are too.