Uneven love, is there any other kind? What's worse, to hand your heart over, or hold another's in your hands? To watch them treat it carelessly, or agonize over every misstep, lest you break it? And why would we agree, to such an arrangement, but that we have no other choice For uneven love, itself uneven; one day you hand your heart over, the next, I, mine Over and over, children in a game; shattering, mending, carefully and carelessly, until we are no more