Love is food for the soul.
Cometh the hour, cometh the expiry date of every food-stuff.
Persistent pining is pungent:
If you do it long enough,
You will over-shoot the shelf-life
Of the hope of a love-life.
That is when your long-lackadaisical logic
Makes a riveting return.
You ignore your newly-insipid infatuation
The taste of a once-luscious love
Turns sadly sour.
Determined, you declare:
“I decline to devour,
This acrid amour,
The deep-ish desire for your delectable darling
Lingers only in memory,
As an almost-acerbic aftertaste.
Cravings for new cuisines crop-up!
Your taste-buds tingle:
Ulcered, pummelled, a little sore,
Yet, hungry for more…
And thus, re-restart
Affairs of the heart.