Rhyme & Reason Fall 2021 by Rhyme and Reason

R&R RR& &RR & R&R RR& &RR & R&R RR& &RR & R&R

Rhyme & Reason, Volume XVIII

Cover Art : Andonia Alexander-Smith

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR This is it! The first mid-year edition of R&R! I hope you enjoy everything in these pages - none of it would have been possible without the amazing work of a few special people: First off, THE ARTISTS. Thank you to everyone who submitted to R&R - the time, effort, and creativity that you all poured into your submissions were evident and it was such a pleasure, as an editor, to see it all come together! Secondly, THE STAFF. Putting together a magazine is difficult; this year, the staff put together a magazine in half the time - and, frankly, I think it’s our best edition yet! They all gave this magazine their all, and it shows. Thank you all so much! Finally, THE TEACHERS. Thank you to all the teachers in the art and English departments for facilitating the enviornments in which many submissions were created, and also for offering extra credit for submisions. Special shoutout to our amazing advisor, Mrs. Batchelor! Remember, we still have our spring semester edition to go! Submissions will open on February 1, 2022 at hiesrhymeandreason@gmail.com. Abigail Wells

Editor-in-Chief

TABLE OF C page numbers 1 2 4 5 6 9 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 22 25 26 28 30

titles letter from the editor table of contents katahdin untitled the final flight hands 2 untitled untitled untitled fruit in security my ship of theseus fragmented illusion the days when summer doesn’t end untitled barbie ask me again untitled to infinity and beyond haiku further yet further

R&R STAFF andonia alexander-smith kate ponder grace roche

CONTENTS

titles life among the fen salt in security in the valley will of the winding forest untitled untitled untitled untitled mask because i knew you when the world finally ends untitled unnamed alphabet soup footprints in the ash boulder boulder untitled untitled untitled dog

colin abigail alexis

page numbers 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 50 51 52 53 54 55

welden wells wolgast

The wind calls to me The trees bellow and beckon The rain embraces

BY ANONYMOUS

KATAHDIN

BY JENNY CANINO

U N T I T L E D

There is an old adage about two wrongs not making a right, and whoever wrote it was correct. Two wrongs don’t make a right, they make you a villain. As the Hero hovers over them, the Villain groans in defeat, lying back in the rubble of the fight. They close their eyes and wait for the last blow to come. This is it. This is the time the Hero finally gets them. This is the end to it all. All the fighting. All the destruction. All the wrangling over control of the city. This is the end…so why is it not coming? The Villain peaks open an eye to see what is stopping the Hero. Nothing but the wasteland of the fight meets the eye. There appears to be nothing stopping them. So why have they stopped? “What are you doing?” the Villain hisses. The Hero looks up, shocked. 6

“Wh-what am I doing? What are you doing?!” the Hero gestures to where the Villain is laying among the scattered remains of buildings. “Waiting for you to kill me.” The Villain says bluntly. The Hero is so taken aback that they cannot answer. “Well, what are you waiting for? It will all work out good for you in the end. I’m sure the citizens will shower you with all and every form of praise. They will probably kiss your boots with a fawning nature. Then the city will revert to its crime-free beginnings, and not a soul will remember me.” The Villain doesn’t try to keep the churlish tone out of their speech. “No, you’re wrong. I will remember you.” The Hero says with a stony face. “Oh, boo hoo, so you kill someone, of course, you’ll remember that.” “Stop saying I’m going to kill you! I’m not!” the Hero’s voice becomes a discordant scream. The Villain startles, but it is not the Hero’s tone that stops them. “You what?” they ask. “I’m not going to kill you!” the Hero yells again. “I don’t know what gave you that idea.” They speak softer this time. “Then what was all this? All this fighting? Why if not to kill

THE FINAL FLIGHT

me?!” the Villain’s voice rises as they speak. “To stop you! To try and make you see the good! To try and make you good.” The Villain stops. This must be a trick. Some twisted plan to take them off their guard. Did the Mayor put the Hero up to this? Was it some kind of sick and twisted decree he had given? Did he set the Hero on them like some supercharged attack dog? The Villain looks at the Hero. They almost look sad. As if this was hurting them. As if their triumph over the Villain is not a bonanza of happiness but rather a great misery. This is not the same Hero who sat atop their citadel, watching the city in a state of vigil every night. This is not the same Hero who jostled the Villain when they got too close. This is not the same Hero who groped for the stragglers in the darkness of destruction. This is the broken shell of that person. “Why?” the Villain asks quietly. “Why what?” the Hero asks, their tone harsh. The Villain notices that the Hero has started to cry. “Why does this make you so sad? I have done nothing but hurt you and your people. So why is killing me something that brings you immeasurable pain rather than relief.” The Hero lets out a sob mixed with a

BY GRACE ROCHE

a laugh. “I can’t. I just can’t.” The Villain begins to sit up, and the Hero does nothing. They seem to be stuck in their head. Swimming in their thoughts. The Villain wonders what those thoughts are. The Hero takes a breath and opens their mouth, and said thoughts spill forth. Truth pouring from their lips, and sadness from their eyes, the Hero begins to speak. “I collaborated with every other hero I could find to take you down. I told them that in return for their help, I would give them something of my own. If we captured you, you were mine, and I was in their debt. They always agreed. I always lost my things when you slipped through my fingers. But it didn’t 7

matter, not to me, not if I was one step closer to catching you. I memorized every excerpt from every work of yours that I found. I reread them a thousand times. My want to stop you from taking the city evolved into an obsession. I didn’t care about what you did, not really, just that it was you. I could tell in mere seconds when something the police thought was your work was actually of a petty criminal just imitating you. I wanted to know everything about you. The public sees you and me as black and white. And truth be told, so did I. But now you are a beautiful mix of different hues of grey. And I fear that I am too. But the funny thing is that I don’t wish you harm, not anymore. Despite what you do, I cannot. My fixation, my obsession, with you has grown, to where I don’t know what I will do when it comes to you anymore. It all used to be so easy, but now the world is pressing upon my shoulders, trying to force my hand, and I don’t want to be the government’s marionette now. I just- I…I don’t know what I want anymore.” The Villain stands before them. Shock rooting them to the spot. They did not expect the Hero to say such things. They did not know what to say back. They stare at the Hero; whose tears stream silently down their face. They do not know what to do. And so, the Villain simply extends a hand to the Hero. And wordlessly, the Hero takes it.

H A N D S 2

BY DEVON MORAIN

U N T I T L E D 10

BY BLAKELY FRIEDMAN

U N T I T L E D

BY LAINE CAIACCIO

U N T I T L E D

B Y E L L I E K E S T E R T O N

FRUIT BY EVA RUSSELL

BY ANDONIA ALEXANDER-SMITH

IN SECURITY

my heart is a ship which floats on a sea of thoughts; each moment a wave crashing against the side of my ship the sails are made of my thoughts, each thread an idea; and the winds of feelings make them dance in the breeze hurricanes of a breakdowns churn the sea, and crash my heart; but just like theseus, i can rebuild my ship

MY SHIP OF THESEUS BY GRACE ROCHE

BY NATHANEAL ADEGOKE

BY NATHANEAL ADEGOKE Joy and happiness swirl all around me, just out of reach, Clouds fill my world, the sky white as bleach. Time stretches and blends like paint on a canvas red. Those are the days where summer does not end.

THE DAYS WHEN SUMMER DOESN’T END 18

U N T I T L E D BY REESE MILLER

BAR

RBIE

BY LANEY BERTHOLF

The Beatles’ “I Want To Hold Your Hand”, written in 1963 by a 23-year-old John Lennon and a 21-year-old Paul McCartney, turned out to be one of the most immature, repetitive, and unoriginal songs to hit the list of the top 500 They ju most influential songs of all time by Rolling Stone; it sits at which ends 16th on the list. Time Magazine includes it in their “Top 100 the song. In Songs of All Time.” It spoke to a generation of starstruck composes o people, screaming their heads off at the mere sights of rock Lennon an stars and dazed by the magic of television. The lack of complexity twice, but t in the song makes it hard to believe that “I Want To Hold Your Yo Hand” rose to popular success in the music industry. No Lennon and McCartney start out with an earthPl shattering message that they “think [some girl will] understand:” Iw they want to hold her hand (McCartney). They sound like Iw eighth grade boys at a movie theatre. Who cares what movie Iw plays? Could be Jaws. Could be one of those Marvel movies they Iw obsess over. Either way, they only imagine their sweaty palm on some girl’s nice, soft, delicate hand. Gross. You see, in the world of the song, the Beatles believe they can “be your man” if “you’ll let me hold your hand” (McCartney). Because, it works that way in the real world: holding hands establishes a life-long relationship with lasting romance and financial security. Let’s hold hands. In terms of their phrasing and diction, at 23 and 21, Lennon and McCartney still seem stuck in pre-pubescence. The repetition in the stunningly unoriginal song sounds like the male utterances of a pair of young boys seeing a girl’s hand for the first time: “And when I touch you I feel happy, inside,” as if the boys touched a bunny or a duckling or a puppy (McCartney). Adult men usually reserve expressions like “feel happy inside” for experiences such as petting zoos, while they use more sophisticated phrases for expressing love, affection, and longing when touching a companion. Of course, this line thrilled Beatles fans across the globe who only wanted to touch one of the Fab Four with juvenile enthusiasm, screaming and fainting as they pushed their way closer to the stage. 22

just wanted to hold their hands, s up as the predominant message of n a song of 36 lines, the line “I can’t hide” one sixth of the total song. Not only do nd McCartney repeat the same verses their big message gets a lot of emphasis: ou’ll let me hold your hand ow let me hold your hand lease let me hold your hand wanna hold your hand wanna hold your hand wanna hold your hand wanna hold your hand

23 BY ANONYMOUS

ASK ME AGAIN.

This kind of originality in repetition seems like counting sheep. But, it does get its point across. Even the listener wants to grab some young woman -- any young woman -- and shove her hand into these immature Brit’s grubby fist long enough for them to shut up. While the song provides a catchy melody and foottapping energy, I still find myself thinking back to this theme of immaturity. The normal experience of hoping for someone to hold hands with you in a movie theatre, or while walking through a park, certainly comes across in this song. Yet, the experience usually happens for people in their teens, not in their twenties. And, even people in their teens describe it in better and more intricate detail than this song does. Personally, I have never been asked by someone if they could hold my hand: not in a movie theatre or a park or in a box or with a fox. Nor have I asked to hold someone’s hand. Usually, even in the world of midteendom, if a boy wants to hold your hand, he does. So, it seems ironic that rock stars in their nearly mid-20s feel the compulsive need to ask permission to touch a girl’s hand. When a person is younger, around 14 for example -- or even more so in elementary school -- it feels like a big deal for your heartthrob to reach over and grab your hand. Hopefully, when I’m in my mid-twenties, my crush can make my heart throb without just holding my hand. By then, maybe I will have advanced to a kiss on the cheek.

Time flies. Clock-hand wings Falter when bored and plummet At a gust of nerves.

BY ABIGAIL WELLS

UNTITLED. 25

TO INFINITY, Disney World is known as the land of enchantment, but did you know it can be as dangerous as walking blindfolded into a slaughterhouse? When I was about 6 years old, my family, including my grandparents and some cousins, took a trip to Orlando, Florida, to visit some of the local Disney theme parks. We went to Animal Kingdom and the Epcot Center, and on the last day we did the big one: Magic Kingdom. I was a huge fan of some of Disney’s works, so this was the best place to be. My grandfather told me he wanted to buy me something, and I told him I wanted a Buzz Lightyear action figure with wings that popped out, like they did in the movie. It was all I could think about all day, and eventually we made our way to Tomorrowland, the part of Magic Kingdom where the Space Ranger himself waited for me. I got the (probably very overpriced) Buzz Lightyear toy and was finally content. We ate lunch and continued exploring the park. 26

We made our way to the side of the park where the Pirates of the Caribbean ride was located-- surely our next venture. I was entranced by my new Buzz Lightyear, had been the entire time, as I have no memory of walking through the park towards the Pirates ride. I only remember being lost in those sparkling plastic eyes, completely oblivious of my surroundings. *%@#! I walked face first into a pillar outside the ride, fell to the ground, and lost my precious Buzz somewhere not far from me. I remember screaming out his name, or maybe just screaming out in agony, because my front tooth had been knocked clean out of my face. I felt blood rushing out of my mouth, I could taste it, and I have never seen my mother look so terrified. I was assisted by the Magic Kingdom medical staff, and it was not nearly as bad as my screaming probably made it out to be, since the tooth was already partially loose, and it came out all in one piece. I was six--who could blame me for screaming? They never did find the tooth—legend has it it’s stuck riding that Pirates ride for eternity. My family probably all suffered minor panic attacks, especially my mom, who today still loses her head at the smallest of incidences. Amazingly, my parents and cousins felt the need to ride the attraction that caused all my trouble, and I sat on a park bench with Buzz and my grandad. While the medical staff finished with me and while my family went on the ride, I was offered a free ice cream from a stall in the park and sat and ate that, content as could be. I left the park with my shirt covered in blood, and with my new, slightly dented, and scratched Buzz Lightyear toy with pop-out wings. What a great vacation.

AND BEYOND BY CIAN LEONARD 27

THANKSG BY JULIA W

crisp air and red family gathered a warm glow and he

UNTITLED

BY ANONYMOUS Air pods in – go away – Eyes down, volume up – go away – Speed walking – go away.

Procrastination. It tastes like chocolate icing: Thick, stuck on my tongue. BY ABIGAIL WELLS

UNTITLED

HAIK

GIVING WINTON

d leaves around eart full

French is silk ribbon Gargled elegantly, then Whispered out again. BY ABIGAIL WELLS

UNTITLED

NYC

BY JULIA WINTON Concrete streets and skies Everywhere are vibrant lives The big city life

I move forward while looking backward, I reach out for the past, ignoring what I move toward. Fleeting memories held by a thread Eyes so lifeless they could be mistaken for dead. People zip past me ever-changing. But I remain in place, held by an unknown grasp. I want to move on, I want to change, But down, down, down I go, air leaves as I gasp. My ears ring; nothing sounds the same. Notes and tones mashed together sound strange. What I used to know, it kept me tame, But as all things do, it fades and flows out of range.

FURTHER, YET FURTHER BY NATHANEAL ADEGOKE 30

BY ANONYMOUS

LIFE AMONG THE FEN Some love the farm For its rural charm Some prefer the gritty The big city I love the wild Where none are reviled Where all are loved Who roam thereof I will ditch my squire For far from any spire Drop my spear And shed no tear I hope to die Alongside the magpie To lie in the dirt No longer to hurt

There is salt in Salt in my to Salt in my It falls out of my mo And flows throu There is salt on And I don’t know how no

BY ANO

n my shoes oothpaste y coffee outh when I smile ugh my veins on my hands ot to be angry anymore

ONYMOUS

ALT.

BY ANONYMOUS

IN THE VALLEY I love the pines I feel the rain I hear their whines It frees my pain.

BY NATHANEAL ADEGOKE

WILL OF THE WINDING FOREST I love the pines I feel the rain I hear their whines It frees my pain.

U N T I T L E D B Y P I E R C E

P R E S T O N

U N T I T L E D B Y D E V O N M O R A I N

UNTITLED BY KATE PONDER

BY KATE PONDER

UNTITLED

MASK BY ANONYMOUS

I never say the right thing I never have the words I never make the right move It’s always been my curse I pass by like it’s normal I never drop my mask So no one sees the real me So no one knows my past Sometimes they think I’m brilliant I trip and land on gold But mostly I stay silent And hope my mask will hold

BECAUSE I KNEW YOU ANONYMOUS

I never really liked you We always disagreed We gave you countless warnings You never seemed to heed I know that you were sad I know you felt alone But it isn’t my fault You destroyed what you love You were a walking disaster A human hurricane And prayed that it would rain I guess that last night You got too far in your head Because when I woke up this morning I found out you were dead I want to say I’ll miss you But I know that isn’t true Nevertheless, it hurts me Because I knew you

Just like we knew it would And now we’re all pretending We’ll spend it like we should I should go see my family Spend time with all my friends But I only want to hold your hand

WHEN THE WORLD FINALLY ENDS ANONYMOUS

BY ELLIE KESTERTON

UNTITLED

UNAMED BY DEVON MORAIN

ALPHABET SOUP BY GRACE ROCHE

My brain has become Alphabet soup My memories Have rolled into noodles Their colors muddled and mixed My knowledge Has melted into broth Thoughts floating like soggy carrots The letters are scrambled Swirled just like my words My tongue is tied And the bowl burns my fingers As my brains spill out As I tip the bowl of Alphabet soup

FOOTPRINTS IN THE ASH BY ANONYMOUS Someone’s coughing. Someone’s crying. Someone’s screaming. Me? I’m sleeping. I’m pretending to sleep. Something light lands on my forehead, falling down the bridge of my nose. I don’t have to open my eyes to know it’s ash. It’s all ash. The world is ash. I’m pretending to sleep. I can feel footsteps approaching and know it’s Rider. He’s slow today. There is no news. Someone’s still coughing. Wise. His lungs cannot handle the ash. The one crying is Mother. Not my mother, mind you. Someone’s mother. Someone who isn’t here anymore. Grief is screaming. She always screams. She sits away from us, and rarely moves. She wishes she was with her family instead of us. She begs us to let her join them, and we beg her not to go. So, she screams. That’s why we call her grief. She is always there, always screaming, impossible to drown out. I’m Chase because I run. When I don’t run, I sleep. I’m pretending to sleep. Things are easier for the others when I’m asleep. They speak their minds when they think I can’t hear. “Is there news?” Mother asks. She’s hoping Rider has found her child. We all know he hasn’t. I hear Rider’s stubble scrape against his long jacket as he shakes his head. “Is there water?” Wise asks. He coughs. We’re desperate. Rider shakes his head again, sighing as he sits down next to me, idly running his fingers through my hair, thinking that I’m asleep. It’s oddly comforting. My mother used to do that.

“Is there fire?” Grief rasps, her voice ruined. It’s the only thing she has ever said to us. She says more when the others are asleep. She knows I’m only pretending. “There is nothing left to burn,” Rider says, because everything is gone. Everything has burned. “What are we going to do with him?” Mother asks, and I know she is pointing at me. She asks this a lot. “He’s helping us survive. He stays,” Wise says. “He’s a child!” she protests. “We shouldn’t force him to sustain all of us! Look at him, all he does is hunt and sleep!” “He is old enough to make his own decisions, and he wants to stay,” Rider says, and his word is final. Rider rides the train. Rider gets the news. Rider makes the decisions. Mother doesn’t want to listen. “It’s not right. He should be with other children.” “The other children are dead,” Grief spits. Everyone goes quiet for a moment, and I imagine they’re all glaring at each other now. “They’re not dead! They can’t be!” Mother shouts, shattering the silence. She sounds a bit like Grief. “They’re gone! We have to move on!” Rider says. He sounds angry. I’ve never heard him angry. “No,” Mother gasps. “My son isn’t dead.” “Go find him, then,” mutters Grief. “I will!” Mother says, and I hear her footsteps as she leaves. She does not come back. That night, I run for hours. I catch enough food to feed us for two weeks and keep going. I run until my tears dry on my face. Then, I sleep. The next day, Rider brings water. It’s a good day. “Is there water?” Wise asked when Rider strode up to our campsite. He nodded. We all sighed in relief. “Is there fire?” Grief whispered. “There is nothing left to burn,” he answered. I don’t know why we expect any different, these days. “Now drink. We need it.” We did. There were only two bottles, but it meant survival for another day. We drank one bottle. We wanted more. Rider hid the other one in his pack, so that no one would be tempted. So, now we sit. 46

“There’s too much dust here,” grunts Wise. “Cover your mouth, it will help,” says Grief, throwing him a scarf. She used to wear it on her head. She took it off one day and never put it back on. No one asked why. Grief hasn’t screamed today. She hasn’t screamed since Mother left. Wise takes her scarf and ties it behind his head, inhaling deeply. “That’s better.” He says it to make Grief feel better. Perhaps he hopes it will keep her quiet for longer. Still, his breathing sounds more like wheezing, and we don’t have enough water. He hardly touches the dinner I caught. Everyone notices. No one says anything. I don’t sleep that night, kept awake by the sound of Wise’s rattling breath. He was sick before. It’s worse now. The moon is high in the sky when the rattling stops. I am the only one who hears. In the morning, I run. I run as far as I can, until the beat of my footsteps drowns out the unsteady rasping in my mind. When I come back, the body is gone. Grief starts screaming again. Rider is quiet that evening. For the first time, I notice how old he looks now. He’s only nineteen. He looks forty. He doesn’t cry, so I don’t either. I rest my head on his shoulder. I sleep. The morning is quiet. Rider left before I woke up, and Grief is still asleep. I sit alone, trying to block out my thoughts. It doesn’t work. Grief doesn’t scream when she wakes up. She talks. She tells me about her life before the fires. She moved here from Iran when she was young. She had everything she could want, she said. She was happy. We all were. She was studying philosophy in the city when the fires began. She was the first to give up her name after she found us. We all followed suit. Our names only served as reminders of what we had lost. Rider comes back empty-handed. “Is there fire?” Grief asks. “There is nothing left to burn,” he says tiredly. Then, “The bell tower fell last night.” The bell tower was the last building standing in our city, the only way of marking it as home. The bell tower has fallen. We walk together to the cliff overlooking the city. The ash and smoke 47

are much worse down there, which is why we stay so high. The landscape is desolate and covered in ash; nothing has been spared. The ruins of the bell tower sit in the middle. Another thing lost. The only structure still standing is the train tracks, elevated 400 feet above the ground. That’s how Rider gets to water storage, 20 miles away. Someone leaves water there sometimes. Sometimes they bring news. I offered to go with him, once, but I’m too small to get on the train. “We can’t just stay here. We need a plan,” Grief says. “Where will we go? The surrounding cities are even worse,” Rider says. It’s still burning. “What about the person that brings the news?” “I haven’t seen her in weeks. She’s probably dead.” “Well, we’re dead if we just stay here.” “We can’t afford to take risks!” “I don’t want to die here, Rider!” She shouts, and Rider goes quiet. She continues in a low voice, saying, “I don’t want to wake up to another dead body. I don’t want to live in terror of another fire each day. I don’t want to sit on my ass each day just waiting to die!” “I don’t want that either–” “Then do something.” He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll try.” Rider stalks off to the plateau, boarding the train as it comes by. The tracks groan. The support beams are sagging, melted by the blazing heat of the fires. The bell tower hit one of them when it fell. About halfway through the circuit, the tracks have collapsed. Grief puts her hand over my eyes, but I still hear it. Like the steady beat of a drum before the shooting starts. Metal crumbling in on itself, hitting the ground with earth-shattering force. Taking Rider with it. We stand in silence, too shocked to move. Then, finally: “Chase, go light the fire. We haven’t eaten all day.” Someone smarter would have stayed, maybe. Or asked her to come with me. I didn’t. I left her on the cliff and went to build the fire. I cooked us dinner and ate my portion. I waited for an hour. Grief didn’t come. I went back to the cliff to look for her. I called her name. She didn’t answer. I had the good sense not to look down. I waited a few weeks, drinking where the animals drank, eating 48

whatever I could catch, and sleeping. I waited for Mother, maybe. Or Grief. Or death. I wake up one day, after two months of being alone, and I run. I run through the city, past the bell tower and the crashed trains and the burnt buildings and the ash. I run until my legs give out and it feels as though I can’t breathe. I collapse, wondering if it’s hopeless, if I’m destined to die here, alone. Then, I feel something unexpected. Grass. Real, living, green grass. With dew. And I’m lying in a field of it. Someone is running towards me from across the field. A group of people, I realize. Someone’s cheering. Someone’s laughing. Someone’s singing. Me? I’m sleeping. I’m pretending to sleep.

BOULDER BY ANDONIA ALEXANDER-SMITH

Between two boulders The wind whistling through the crack Pulling my hair into a tango with the breeze I long for the sea So close yet so far away This place is dry and barren Dusty with sand that once lined a vast ocean And rock that stood strong beneath the feet Of the many who came here before me The river that flowed last long ago Molded these small mountains with fingers most gentle Fingers that poked the rock Prodding it into shape before it dried and hardened And then setting it out on display In the midst of an outcropping of trees And decorated with cloth of clear blue sky And ribbon of wind Now it is home to the winds and the words That wind their way between the hollow peaks And leave echoes in my eyes and my ears.

BOULDER BY ANDONIA ALEXANDER-SMITH

UNTITLED

BY MAGGIE HEREFORD

UNTITLED

BY MAGGIE HEREFORD 53

U N T I T L E D

BY DEVON MORAIN

U N T I T L E D

DOG. BY JULIA WINTON

Wet nose, Flopping ears Incessant sloppy kisses Unwavering love