love, too, is a revolution

Finding guilt in her eyes,
as if loving me
was betrayal of the times.

I tell her, love too is a revolution.
To choose one soul
when everyone is choosing themselves.
To read poems
while the world counts seconds.

To think of shielding someone
from grief you cannot control.
To hold tenderness
when fingers hover over weapons.

Love is a war, yes.
Not of blood,
but of staying soft
in an age that rewards stone.

The regimes may outlive us.
The dictators may write history.
But for a moment,
we rewrite it quietly
by loving
without permission.