I love you like the apple
that transgresses from a tree.
It is pulled downward
from calm familiarity.
Into the abyss of earth it crashes,
and is bruised.
And as the skin of all my mirth, will then decay
it shall infuse
with the origin of its origin
the birth by which its birthed,
and thus the end of its beginning,
and there forever stay.
So I shall count my loss as winning,
and ne'er again the two confuse.