I hate

how you make me miss you,

how you have occupied my thoughts

and perhaps being

the reason for the tarnish

upon my skin to have

returned,

scaly, dragon-like

and festering, biding its time

in which before the eruption and

the chemical disaster spill

combine

to infect every pore of my blistered skin

and I potter in darkness

away from the sun,

Marlowe stanced and not get over excited;

I hate

how I miss you.

 

I hate