Love not only loves, it judges,
And this is why love fades away
And only the cigarette butts from yesterday
Remain—after you cry, and plead, and say what you need to say.
Only the poet who sings a sweet song,
Hates what needs to be hated
And sees the poem of drippy prose is wrong.
Only a poet hates the one who waited
To show her hate, and when her hate is revealed at last—
Love, asking for honesty, having forced her hand—
Love, not only loving, but seeking continually to understand—
Finds hate, calculating, doubtful, slow, the winner; love unfortunately is fast—
Since by its very nature, love is unable to doubt.
Love belatedly discovers the hate, and calls the hate out.
When I loved you, fully and completely, and love surprised
You in your very eyes,
You looked at me in love, hiding as long as you could, your hate.
I loved you until I understood. You are pitied, wounded, and waiting. I never wait.
Love and judgment are alike in this—
Bright. And with the speed of light, surround, ruin and kiss.
I know in one step. You, in two.
You think. I simply love you.
Scarriet 
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