I'll hate you more than I'll love you,
that is, of course, if we're drawing
lines between the two.
I'll love you enough to hold
you up to the light and comment
on how the colors explode in your wicker/glass ribs,
but I will love the colors more than you.
I will hate you enough to hide you
in the garden when your translucent edges
have lost their light, and you are but an afterglow,
a fidgety ember.
On the bright side, you may die before
the wave and particle fail you, so you'll never
see how I shovel the upturned earth without a pause.
If this seems enough, for what you call love,
I know a very good florist.