My final say on Love

I need to rescue this pitiful word from
Being a downtrodden rotten ragged rat of
A word , to evolving to the fresh warm taste
Of honey sprinkled on a green apple, sour sweetness
In a complete and fulfilled sort of pleasure

And nowhere do we know love better than
When it is ripped by loss, by the slow regurgitation of every
Morsel of apple in a pool of hydrochloric acid and rejection,
Every convulsion a confirmation, every gob of spit a reclamation
And that wonderful aching emptiness that is left, can anticipate
Being filled by the same sour sweetness, in some parallel future